Past Imperfect
by Oaktown fangirl
Summary: As a mysterious force stalks the great estate of Collinwood, a long-forgotten artifact holds the key to understanding its motives and desires. Quentin and Maggie find their way of life under threat from both the unknown force and from the past itself. The story picks up shortly after the events of "Out of the Past". A brief summary is provided for those who've not read it.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: Past Imperfect picks up shortly after the events of Out of the Past. For those of you who've not read it, here's a capsule summary:

 _Barnabas travels to 1897 to learn the origins of Chris Jennings's werewolf curse. Once there he learns that Quentin Collins is the source of the curse. He persuades Angelique to cure Quentin, which she does. Cured of the curse, a now-aimless Quentin uses the I Ching in an attempt to cheat time and go back to the past to save his slain fiancé. Instead the I Ching leads him to 1968. In 1968, Maggie Evans has been having vivid dreams of a man from Collinwood's past. When she meets Quentin, she realizes that the man from her dreams is real and alive in 1968. The two fall in love and marry after an all too brief courtship._

When I realized that I wanted to continue the story, I took a page from the DS writers playbook, and decided to ret-con a couple of things. My apologies for that, but it's not really central to the story, which I hope you enjoy.

* * *

The great estate at Collinwood has long stood as a portal between the past, the present, and the future. None of its residents is immune to its mysteries, or to the strange and dark forces so frequently at work there. For one woman, Maggie Collins, née Evans, the estate's mysteries are a constant, albeit suppressed, companion. While she was not born a Collins, the estate is now her home, its residents are now her family—and its mysteries are forever woven into her life.

* * *

Prologue – London 1879

He had stalked her through the streets of the city—watching her from afar, yet never losing sight of her comings and goings. He had followed her as she went in and out of shops on the high street; waited under the awning of a bookseller while she took afternoon tea in an establishment across the street; and tracked her at a distance, following her dark purple hat and short cloak as she at last turned from the heavily populated streets onto a smaller tributary lane.

By now the sun was setting, and the moon was making its entrance—still so low that the buildings obscured its appearance. It was here on this small lane, before she reached the door that led to her apartment of rooms, that he must waylay her. Once inside, it would be too late—it would never do to confront her there.

Following her all day, as he had, brought his age into stark relief. He was an old man. In his youth, such an undertaking would have been nothing to him, but now his joints ached, and he longed for nothing more than the comfort of his armchair and the warmth of an evening fire. That was not to be—at least, not yet.

The lane ended in a T-junction with another lane. Just to the left was the establishment she sought—her sanctuary for another night. He quickened his pace, willing his legs to make long strides in order to intercept her.

To his surprise, she stopped at the junction of the two lanes and turned to face him. Her dark auburn curls peeked out from beneath her stylish hat. She was a beauty—sculpted bone structure, eyes the color of emeralds, framed by long lashes. Her bow-shaped lips formed the perfect mouth. If he were a younger man, he would go to her and beg her to bestow her attention on him. But his youth was but a memory now. His hair, his features, his hands all bore the mark of age. Even his suit, well tailored of fine worsted wool, looked old from constant, daily wear. He was glad of it now, for he knew that no approaches, no entreaties she might make to him would be inspired by anything but cunning.

"So, you've come for me at last," she said. Even her voice sounded lyrical and sweet to his ears. "Did you learn nothing from our last encounter?" she hissed.

This brought him back into himself and his purpose. "I've learned a great deal," he began. "I watched you from afar. Then I hired apprentices to be my eyes, ears, and legs. Would you like to know what I learned, my dear?"

"What have you learned, old man?" Her eyes shone red in the evening's waning light.

"Only this," he said and from the pocket of his topcoat, he drew out a small wooden box.

She laughed, but the bravado that was evident only a moment before was gone. "How did you get that?"

Ignoring her question, he continued. "This," he said in a commanding voice. His wrinkled hands slid one of the boxes wood panels to the right. "And this." He slid another and another. "See what I've learned!"

She turned as if to flee. "Stop!" His voice rang out and echoed through the small lane. "Stop demon!" She turned back to face him. He slid the final panels of the box and its lid popped open.

She took a tentative step back away from him. "No," she said, her eyes still glowing red.

"Stop demon!" the old man cried out loudly. "Stay."

At the end of the lane, a passerby turned to look, and then hurried on, with an astonished look on his face.

Holding the box in one hand, the old man raised the other arm, extending it out toward her. "Light of the moon, pull of the tides, aid me in my task. Return this creature to the darkness from which it came. Light of the moon, pull of the tides, aid me in my task. Return this creature to this vessel—consecrated for our use, for this purpose and only this purpose. Light of the moon, pull of the tides, I implore you, aid me my task." His hand shook so violently, he nearly dropped the box. The shaking rippled out and overtook his entire body. Still, he chanted "Light of the moon, pull of the tides, I implore you, aid me my task."

She threw back her head and laughed. _He is old and weak_ , she thought. Then, at the far end of the lane, the moon rose and crested the sightline of the buildings and shone brightly into the narrow lane. "No," she screamed, "I won't."

"Return this creature to the darkness from which it came," his voice, amplified in the moonlight, boomed out from his wizen body.

Her screams dissolved into a whimper, "No. I won't."

Then, her eyes widened and from each a plume of red smoke poured out. From each nostril and from her open mouth, dark plumes of smoke came out. The plumes mingled together, weaving themselves into a thick single strand, like a braid of smoke. Then, it was bidden toward the box. It moved with purpose and yet reluctance. Finally, it wound its way in slowly into the box. When at last the final end of the plume disappeared inside, he shut the lid, and slid the panels back into place.

At the end of the lane where she'd turned to face him, the woman collapsed. As she fell to the ground, her eyes shone green once again. He walked over to her. He could see that she was breathing; she was still alive, but her beauty was somehow diminished. He tucked the box back into the pocket of his overcoat. Then he turned and left. She was only the host. What happened to her now was of little consequence to him. What mattered most was that it was once again sealed in its proper vessel. His mission was complete.

* * *

The old man slowly made his way back down the high street, turned the corner and made his way down a now-dark street to his small shop. "Objects de Arte" the small shingle read. The shop window was dark, as he turned the key in the lock. Passing through the small shop, crammed with small, unique pieces, he headed toward the dim light at the rear of the shop. There he found his apprentice waiting for him.

"Is it done?" the younger man asked him.

"Yes," the old man responded wearily. "It is done."

"And the woman?"

The old man chuckled. "You have an aptitude for this—if only you would focus," the old man told him with a gentle smile. "I suppose you are still intent upon leaving?" he asked.

"My passage is booked, and the time I've spent here with you, reminds me that my own father is aging. I should like to see him again before his days grow short."

"You must take this with you," the old man said, reaching into the pocket of his topcoat, and drawing out the small box.

The young man gave him a quizzical look that invited an explanation.

"My time grows short as well. I believe you will be the last apprentice I will ever take on. You must take what you like from my collection, but this," the old man said indicating the small box with a nod of his head, "I am entrusting it to your protection."

* * *

Collinwood 1969

When Quentin Collins entered the drawing room of the Great House, he expected to find his wife, Maggie, already there, waiting for him. Instead, the room was empty. A small fire was struggling to life in the fireplace.

Quentin loosened his tie and made his way to the liquor cabinet. Removing the ornate stopper from the crystal decanter, he poured himself a pre-dinner brandy. The antique decanter had been in use from at least 1897. He turned it in his hand, and marveled that it had somehow survived not only the intervening decades between 1897 and 1969, but also the concomitant renovations, upgrades, and refurbishing that had taken place.

He had traveled from 1897 to 1969 courtesy of the ancient divination practice of the I Ching. His own hubris led him to believe that he could bend it to his will. Instead he discovered that the wands used in the ancient practice held a will of their own. It brought him to a time and place of _its_ choosing—and in the process had given him a new lease on life—whether he wanted one or not.

He woke up each day and told himself that he was now settled in 1969. He was accepted by the Collins family of 1969, as one of their own. He married a woman he loved—a woman of 1969. He'd joined the family business and lived on the family estate—he had _settled_ there. And yet, each day as he readied himself for a day at the Collins mill in Collinsport, he was aware of a murmur at the back of his mind challenging this definition of _settled_.

He often wondered now whether it would have been the same had he stayed in 1897. Would he have met a woman to fill the void left by his late fiancé? Would he have eventually reconciled with his brother, Edward, and joined the family business? Would he have lived the rest of his life at Collinwood—never again to travel or seek intrigue and adventure?

"Are you going to stand there fondling the decanter? Or pour me a drink?" Quentin's "cousin", Carolyn Stoddard, appeared at his side. He'd been so lost in thought, that he'd not heard her approach.

"Carolyn," he greeted her warmly and took her in with his eyes. She was a lovely young woman, with long blond hair, that she pushed behind her ears in a nervous gesture. Tonight she wore a green sweater, tucked into a short skirt that hung low on her hips. "I'm glad someone's here to join me in a drink," he said as he drew another snifter from the cabinet, poured a healthy dram into hers and topped his up. He handed her her drink. "I was expecting Maggie to be here when I arrived."

Carolyn colored slightly. "That's my fault, I'm afraid. Maggie asked me to meet you and let you know that she went home to dress for dinner." A look of irritation crossed Quentin's face. "Did I say something wrong?" Carolyn asked.

Quentin put his genial face back on as he responded, "No, of course not. So, what's new with you?"

"New?" she asked, as though the word itself was new to her. "Nothing, I suppose. I'm looking forward to mother's little dinner party tonight. Other than that, things have been pretty quiet—unusual for Collinwood, to say the least. But I'm glad of it," she went on. A wry smile crossed Quentin's lips. "But I see you don't agree with me."

"It's not that. It's just that sometimes I crave something different—really different. Do you understand?" he asked. A raised eyebrow served as punctuation.

"I think I do …"

"Everyday at the mill is pretty much the same as the last. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for the opportunity Roger's given me. It's just that sometimes I think there has to be more to life—sometimes I want something more, something _different_." Quentin paced away and found himself in front of the fireplace. Carolyn followed and sat beside him in an armchair.

She paused as she considered, then continued, "Does Maggie know how you feel? Have you spoken to her about it?"

He played it off lightly. "It's just a feeling I have sometimes-nothing to worry her about. So promise me, you won't say anything to Maggie."

"Won't say anything to me about what?" Maggie asked.

Quentin looked up. Maggie was standing in the drawing room doorway. She'd traded the sensible turtleneck and tweed skirt she'd worn that morning for a short navy blue, bell sleeved dress that he'd never seen before. She'd styled her hair too—pulling the top up, and leaving two perfectly curled tendrils to frame her face. The rest trailed down her back.

Quentin set his drink on the mantle and crossed the room to greet his wife. "You look lovely," he said softly then drew her into a lingering kiss.

"Ahem," Carolyn pretended to clear her throat. Maggie's cheeks colored as Quentin released her from his embrace. "You do look nice, Maggie. Is it new?"

"Yes. Do you like it?" Maggie asked as she gave a little twirl, sending the dress fanning out around her thighs.

"Very much," Carolyn enthused. "It really suits you."

Even after the many months that had passed since he found himself in 1968, Quentin still found it difficult to comprehend that women—even a decent, married woman like Maggie—routinely exposed every measure of their legs—and more. Looking at her, he had to suppress mixed emotions and desires.

Carolyn continued, "I'll leave you two while I go make myself presentable before Tony arrives." With that, she left her friends and ascended the stairs.

"Sherry?" Quentin asked.

"Yes, please," she said as she moved to take a seat on the davenport next to the fire. "I could really use one after the walk over from the farm."

"You needn't have walked. I'd have come for you," he began then added, "Better still, you didn't need to be _here_ today in the first place."

Maggie sighed. "Quentin, I told you before, I like working here. I still love teaching David and Amy."

Exasperation showed on Quentin's face as he joined her on the davenport. "You're my wife, Maggie. You don't have to work."

"I know I don't _have_ to. I _want_ to."

"You said it would only be until Elizabeth found a new governess," he said in a stern voice.

"I like keeping busy," she said.

"You're a Collins now—and my wife. Do you know what the men at the mill say about me?" He answered his own question before she could put forward a response. "That I don't treat you like a Collins."

"Who cares what they think?" Maggie asked defiantly.

"I do. I need to command their respect."

"So this is about them?" she persisted. He didn't answer. Instead he turned his gaze away from her. When he turned back he could see her lips were pressed tightly together, but she said nothing.

"This isn't the time or place to discuss it," he said at last. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up." He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "Forgive me?" he asked.

What could she say? What could she say to convince a man from the late nineteenth century to see the world from her point of view. His attitudes were of his time, not hers, but she loved him deeply nonetheless. "Of course I forgive you. You're right—we shouldn't quarrel—not here, not tonight," she cooed in a soft, lyrical voice.

He leaned in, found her lips with his, and ended their argument as they always did in their mutual passion.

* * *

Later that evening, while Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, her brother Roger, houseguest Julia Hoffman, and Professor Eliot Stokes retired to the library for brandy and a game of bridge, the "young people," as Elizabeth referred to them, headed to the Blue Whale for a nightcap.

Carolyn and her boyfriend, Tony Peterson, sat nursing their whisky and sodas, watching Quentin and Maggie on the dance-floor. Quentin had selected three slow numbers on the jukebox, which he deemed suitable for dancing. He'd not grown up in this century, and thus there were many things, like the music and dance moves of the twentieth century, that eluded his understanding. But holding Maggie close and moving slowly to the music had been easy to master.

Carolyn and Tony drank in silence for a time, before Tony observed, "They look good together—happy. Maybe that's what marital bliss does for you."

Carolyn didn't read anything into his observation, instead she countered, "Actually, I think there may be trouble in paradise."

"Oh?" Tony asked. "What makes you think so?"

"Just something Quentin said earlier, and did you notice how quiet Maggie was all through dinner?"

"Yes, I suppose she seemed a little off," Tony agreed.

"Maybe I should talk to her."

Tony's face contorted into an expression that spoke his displeasure. "Carolyn let me give you some advice as an experienced attorney," he began, though he knew how much she chafed when he reminded her of his age and experience. "Don't get involved. Let them figure things out on their own."

"But they're our best friends," Carolyn persisted. "Of course I want to help them."

"I know you do," Tony told her in a tone that she found at once sexy and infuriatingly patronizing. "But if things go wrong between them, they won't thank you for getting in the middle of it."

Carolyn, true to her Collins upbringing, was not to be denied. When Tony and Quentin went to the bar to get another round of drinks, she turned to Maggie, and began, "You're awfully quiet tonight. Is everything okay?"

Maggie glanced over at the bar, where her husband stood chatting with the Blue Whale's bartender and owner, Ed. Then she turned her eyes to Carolyn and said, "It's Quentin. He wants me to quit my job."

"Oh?" Carolyn had not expected that response. There was more discontent between her two friends than she had suspected.

Maggie went on, "He said the men at the mill think he isn't treating me like a Collins. But Carolyn, I _want_ to work."

"I know you don't want to hear this Maggie, but maybe he's right," Carolyn said.

"You too?" Maggie's face conveyed her exasperation and disappointment. "Carolyn, you and I both know how people are in this town. If I keep working, they'll say Quentin isn't treating me like a Collins. If I quit my job and join the hospital board, they'll say I've forgotten who I am and where I come from. Either way, we can't win."

"I'm not thinking about them," Carolyn said in a serious tone. "I know how much you care about David, and especially Amy. Neither you or my mother likes change, and you'd both be happy to have things go on as they are, until … I guess until you have a family of your own."

Maggie's cheeks colored in response, but she regrouped and asked, "What's wrong with that?"

Carolyn continued, "Nothing, but I think maybe it's time for you to find something you enjoy for yourself, before you and Quentin start a family."

"There are some things I've been thinking I'd like to explore," Maggie conceded. "But the kids still need me, especially Amy, and we haven't found anyone suitable to replace me."

"Well, as to that, I think it's time David and Amy went to school … in Collinsport."

" _School?_ " Maggie was incredulous.

"Yes, school," Carolyn repeated. "After all, it's 1969. And I think it would be good for them, especially David, to interact with other children."

"A Collins has never gone to school in town," Maggie told her.

"Well, maybe it's time that changed."

Maggie looked up to see that Quentin and Tony were making their way back to the table with the next round of drinks, effectively ending their conversation, but not her train of thought.

* * *

Elizabeth Collins Stoddard wore her countenance as matriarch of the Collins family like a shield—a shield against all of the things that she knew the townspeople of Collinsport believed about her family—that it was cursed, that it was responsible for all the strange things that befell the family and its namesake town. Elizabeth never allowed any of it to penetrate her shield.

She had long been responsible for managing the estate, ceding to her brother, Roger Collins, responsibility for the two family businesses—the cannery, fed by a fleet of fishing ships, and the lumber mill that at one time supplied the lumber to build that fleet.

Of late, an unusual calm had settled over the estate. There were no strange disappearances, or other unexplained phenomena on the estate or in town. Instead, all was unusually quiet, or so it seemed to Elizabeth. She stood in the foyer waiting for Harry Johnson, the family chauffeur, to pull the station wagon around to the front of the estate. The unusual calm had allowed Elizabeth to consider her role at Collinwood. Things seem to function well enough without her constant attention. Although, she had long been a member of hospital board in town, she longed to be of greater service—to be more occupied, more fulfilled. So she'd asked Julia Hoffman to arrange for her to join the board of the Windcliff Sanitarium. It was there that she was headed on this particular morning.

The door to the corridor that connected the foyer to the back of the house—its kitchen and servants' quarters—opened. A moment later, Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper, came in carrying a box. She added it to the small stack of boxes already assembled in the foyer.

"That's the last of them," she announced.

"Mrs. Johnson," Elizabeth began in an admonishing tone, "You should have asked Harry to carry it."

"It was light enough," Mrs. Johnson responded, as she wiped her hands on her apron. "I'm not sure why he left it behind in the first place," she added in an irritated tone she reserved for speaking to or about her son, Harry.

At that moment, the oft-maligned Harry entered the Great House through the front doors, and set about loading the boxes into the waiting car. Though she said nothing, Elizabeth thought that household standards had slipped a bit since her attention was elsewhere. Harry should have loaded the car through the servants' entrance and then brought it around front to pick her up. She tried to suppress the thought and pretended to focus on adjusting her scarf.

When the car was loaded, Harry opened the rear passenger door and waited while Elizabeth got in. Then he settled himself behind the steering wheel, and pulled the car down the drive.

Elizabeth and Mrs. Johnson had spent some part of each of the past several days going through the Great House's basement, unused bedrooms, even the tower room to purge them of generations of accumulated items of all varieties—clothes, children's toys, knick-knacks. It had taken far longer than was necessary, because for each box they opened, each item they examined, Elizabeth stopped to wonder to whom it belonged, had they been happy, and implicitly, had they too been plagued by the family curse.

They sorted everything into three categories. Some were destined for local charities; a hand-selected few would be sent to the new antiques shop in town; and some would be given to Windcliff. One of the first decisions Elizabeth participated in as a board member at Windcliff was to add an art therapist to the staff.

Some of the long-serving board members, as well as psychiatrists on staff, were reticent. They did not see the value some argued; others did not believe it was efficacious; still others had argued that the resources would be better spent on tested, verifiable treatments—after all, they did not want to become known for unproven modes of treatment. Hypnotherapy was one thing, this was quite another. But Elizabeth had been quite taken with the presentation by the young art therapy practitioner. She resolved to identify funding for the first year, after which they could evaluate its efficacy and value. By identifying funding, she meant writing a sizable check and privately shaming two other board members into doing the same.

Now as she headed up the coast, the edifice of the sanitarium came into view. She was bringing several boxes of art supplies, which she'd purchased for this purpose, and boxes of toys and other objects from the Great House that the art therapist had indicated she could put to use in her work. One chest in particular proved to be a treasure trove of objects d' arte. It had belonged not to a Collins, but to someone named Evan Hanley. Elizabeth had no idea how it came to be in the Great House basement, but it was packed with small, interesting objects for which, the art therapist had assured her, she would find a use.

* * *

Later that day, having made her deliveries, Elizabeth joined Dr. Fisher, Windcliff's director and head psychiatrist, for coffee, followed by a tour of the sanitarium. She'd been there before of course, but now that she was on the board, Dr. Fisher used every opportunity to press home the needs that a board member might help to address. But Elizabeth Stoddard had her own priorities. When she felt that she'd seen and heard enough of Dr. Fisher's pet projects and ideas for board involvement, she said, "I should very much like to see the new art therapy room."

"Of course," Dr. Fisher replied solicitously, internally marveling at the new board member's single-mindedness. He led the way to a small room on the sanitarium's ground floor. As they walked, Elizabeth's mind drifted to a time not long before when her family believed she belonged at Windcliff. They deemed her obsession with her own death and premonition that she would be buried alive, to be a psychotic episode. She had come out of it on her own, but it fueled her desire to help others.

When they entered the art therapy room, they were met by the pert, but serious, art therapist. The space was indeed small but art therapy, by its very nature, was intimate. At one easel, a young woman with straw-colored hair was painting. Her brush moved methodically back and forth across the small canvas, depositing a thick coat of red paint. At another table, an older woman was hard at work molding a clay figure with her hands. Her look of deep concentration gave way to a shy smile when she noticed Elizabeth observing her.

The third patient sat at a small table—his eyes unfocused. When Elizabeth's eyes came to the third patient, she said aloud, "Joe." If he heard her, he gave no indication. Nothing about his affect changed; there was no glimmer of recognition. His catatonic state persisted.

"Do you know Mr. Haskell?" the art therapist asked.

"Yes, very well," Elizabeth responded. She turned to Dr. Fisher, "I should like to stay on for little while, if Miss Pritchett doesn't mind, of course."

Miss Pritchett's expression suggested she'd scored some small victory over the head psychiatrist. "Of course, I don't mind. I welcome the opportunity to speak to you about the work we're doing here—and about Mr. Haskell."

Elizabeth turned to Dr. Fisher with an imperious mien. "Thank you Dr. Fisher. I needn't detain you further today. I'm sure I can find my way out when we're done here," she said as she offered him her hand.

He looked at her as though he was uncertain whether to shake her hand or kiss her ring. In the end, he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, rather than an authentic shake. "Thank _you_ , Mrs. Stoddard, both for your time and your generosity," he said in an unctuous tone. Then he turned on his heel, and left, closing the door behind him.

Elizabeth released a deep exhale when he was gone. She turned to the art therapist. "Now, I'd like to hear all about your technique." She hesitated, thinking how not to appear callused. "But, I'm most interested in Joe."

Miss Pritchett smiled. "I understand. Let's start there. In all honesty, he's not a good candidate for this kind of therapy, but I convinced Dr. Fisher to let me try. It's better than letting him sit staring at nothing day after day," she said.

They turned almost in unison, and looked across the room to where Joe sat. "So, what does it entail?" Elizabeth asked.

"Well, in Joe's case, given his condition, I'm looking for the key to unlock his catatonic state. I'm looking for an image or object that resonates for him." The young woman had a bright, open countenance appropriate for her chosen profession. She continued, "I've tried imagery—photographs, paintings. I've given him small sculptures to hold. It sounds strange, but if I put his hands on an object, he'll hold it until I take it away. Of course, I have no way of knowing what's going on in his mind, but I keep hoping to trigger something, to reach him." She paused and collected herself, setting aside the emotions that surfaced in her tone. "That's why I'm so grateful for your donations."

"That box he's holding is one of the things we donated, isn't it?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes, it is."

"Would you mind if I sit with him for a few minutes?"

Miss Pritchett offered her a smile and nodded. "Please do. I'll be over there," she gestured to the other patients, "when you're done."

Elizabeth crossed the room and took a seat at the table beside Joe. "Hello Joe," she began a one-sided conversation. "How are you?" She realized all at once the futility the Windcliff staff must experience daily.

She turned her attention to the box in his hands. At first, she covered his hands with hers. Then she gently took the box from his hands, which were as pliable and compliant as a doll's. She looked at the box closely for the first time. "It's a puzzle box," she said softly to Joe, as though it was a secret between them. "I had something similar when I was a girl," she continued. Her hands went to work on the small box, sliding a panel in one direction, then another panel in the other direction, then a third and fourth. "And now, it should open," she said. When nothing happened, she looked at it in frustration. It seemed a perfect parallel to Joe's situation.

Elizabeth put the box back into Joe's hands, gently wrapping his long fingers around it. "I'm sorry, Joe. I was hoping we might discover what's inside of it together." She patted his hand and smiled with warmth that belied the sadness she was feeling. "I'll come again soon. I promise—and I'll bring Amy with me next time. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Joe?" She carried on speaking to him as though he might answer. She patted his arm gently. "Goodbye, Joe." She stood. He didn't look up or acknowledge her in any way.

Elizabeth swallowed a lump of grief that had lodged in her throat and went to join Miss Pritchett, who was speaking with the younger patient, encouraging her to consider using more, different colors to express herself.

Joe remained impassive. The only movement he exhibited was the steady rise and fall of his chest. His hands remained as Elizabeth had positioned them. Unseen by anyone other than Joe, the lid to the puzzle box suddenly popped open.


	2. Chapter 2

At the great estate of Collinwood, mysteries steeped in darkness haunt the residents. Young and old, newly arrived and lifelong residents alike are swept up into the eddies of its inexplicable happenings. But each generation buries its secrets and keeps them from the next, and thus no one sees the patterns that ripple through their past, present, and future.

* * *

Maggie stormed out of the doors of the Great House into the night. A potent combination of panic and fear drove her. The wind was howling; the trees in the woods trembled and moaned a lament in response.

Maggie's long dress and slipper-like shoes were wholly unsuitable, but it was the least of her concerns. She ran wildly, tears in her eyes, into the woods. Her mind was devoid of intent; pure emotion drove her. The conscious part of her mind became aware of footsteps behind her—footsteps pursuing her.

She emerged from the woods into the clearing that formed the boundary of the bluffs. Her feet had brought her to Widows' Hill. She turned to face her pursuer. She shook her head in disbelief. Her hands went to cover her ears. She wouldn't listen. She turned away from her pursuer, in a vane attempt to silence the voice ringing in her ears.

Then she felt it—the fragile crust of the bluffs giving way beneath her.

"Please, _no_ …." She cried out as she fell.

"Maggie! Wake up."

Maggie sat up in a quick, sudden motion and her eyes slowly took in the room around her. Their cozy bedroom came into focus—a milk-jug filled with dried flowers on top of the knotty pine dresser, the large braided rug she'd bought at an antiques fair in Bangor, two of her father's seascapes hanging side by side … she was safe. It felt like the cottage she shared with her father when she was a girl. It felt like the safest place she knew.

"Another bad dream?" Quentin sat up and joined her, sitting beside her in bed, draping his arm around her shoulders. His hair formed a sleepy crown of peaks and errant tufts.

"The same dream," she told him. She went on, "It was so real. Just like …"

She fell silent. Though he knew where her thoughts led her, he encouraged her to continue, "Go on."

"It's just like those dreams I had about you. They felt real too, and now here you are …"

"It's just a dream, Maggie—not a premonition," he said reassuringly, as he drew her into a close embrace.

"How can you be sure?"

He chuckled lightly. "It's Collinwood. We can't be sure of anything—except that I won't let anything happen to you." She found his confident eyes with her anxious ones. "Still, do me a favor," he went on.

"Of course. What?"

"Don't walk through the woods today. Take your car, or I'll drop you off at the Great House in the morning, and pick you up in the evening."

"How about this? I promise I won't _ever_ walk through the woods alone at night, but I know you're right. It's just a dream. I'm safe—here with you."

He lay back down, and gently drew her to him, but said nothing more. When they had both settled, Maggie nestled beside him. She could tell from the shallow rhythm of his breath and the conscious way he stilled his movements, that sleep eluded them both that night.

* * *

Shortly after sunrise the next morning, Elizabeth Stoddard found early-riser, Dr. Julia Hoffman, already dressed for the day in a trim tweed suit, deep in conversation on drawing room phone. Ordinarily, Elizabeth would have demurred from staying and overhearing Julia's end of the conversation, but she had brought with her a tray with her morning coffee service on it. It was far too heavy to carry to the library, and besides she longed to have her coffee beside the fire, which was not quite necessary, but nonetheless enjoyable. So she set the tray on the desk, poured a cup of coffee, and then retired to an armchair. In contrast to Julia's business-like attire, Elizabeth, with no plans that would take her beyond the Great House that day, wore a stylish, yet comfortable caftan of blue floral silk.

"Um hm," Elizabeth heard Julia say. "I see," the doctor continued. "Of course. I'll leave immediately." Elizabeth discretely cast her eyes in the doctor's direction. Julia clutched at a rust colored scarf around her neck in a nervous, almost girlish gesture. "I'll see you shortly, Geoff." Then Julia hung up the receiver. A smile graced her lips.

"I hope you won't mind my asking, Julia, but is it Dr. Fisher that brought that smile to your face?" Elizabeth asked, without apologizing for overhearing, as the conversation took place in _her_ drawing room.

"Only indirectly," Julia responded. "It's Joe Haskell. He spoke. It seems as though he's come out of his catatonic state at last."

"Julia—that's wonderful news. I saw him only yesterday and it was so discouraging to see him like that. And now today …" Elizabeth stood and joined the doctor. "… It's truly miraculous."

Now Julia thought it best to temper Elizabeth's enthusiasm. "Geoff—Dr. Fisher—asked me to consult on the case. It would probably be best not to mention it to anyone else, until we're sure. Sometimes in these cases, autonomic responses are mistaken for recovery," Julia said with gravity. "I wouldn't want to get hopes up, especially Amy's."

"Of course you're right, Julia. I won't say a word to anyone, but you will let me know as soon as you know more, won't you?"

"Of course I will."

Julia left to retrieve what she'd need for her day at Windcliff, and Elizabeth returned to her place by the fire to contemplate the difference one day could make.

* * *

Joe Haskell had long been a favorite son of Collinsport. He was affable, handsome, and loyal; in sum, he possessed many qualities that drew people to him. He was the consummate local guy. He worked at the Collins family cannery. He frequented the Blue Whale after work with the other cannery and mill workers. He took many meals at the coffee shop, just to be close to Maggie Evans. Eventually, he had asked Maggie to marry him, and she'd accepted. Then, the townsfolk in Collinsport would say, their perfect couple was ensnared by the curse of Collinwood. Joe would never be the same again.

In truth, he began building a barrier the day his friend Jerry told him that his wife was pregnant, and their plans to purchase a fishing boat of their own were indefinitely on hold. He had planned and saved for the day when he would own his own boat. It was not that he didn't enjoy and excel at his job at the cannery, but he dreamed of being his own man. He had buried his disappointment and carried on.

But then Maggie disappeared. The face he showed the town was resolute. He devoted himself to finding Maggie. But on the inside, it was another brick in the wall. When she was finally found, she wasn't the same woman—far from it. She'd regressed into her childhood; she no longer recognized him and did not remember what they had together or what they meant to each other.

Even as Maggie recovered and regained her footing in life, he had fallen prey to the curse. First he had fallen under the spell of a vampire. She was beautiful, but morally bankrupt, and he could never understand why among all of Collinsport's residents, she had chosen him—but she did, and his resulting shame and isolation was yet another brick.

The final brick that sealed his fate was the night he witnessed his cousin, Chris Jennings, transform from a man into a beast. Chris walked as a man, but his mindless ferocity, and his physical transformation, proved he was not.

It was then that Joe retreated behind a wall of silence. He was no longer responsible for telling the world what he'd seen. He was no longer required to face the constant threats. _I saw it with my own eyes_ , his mind cried out from behind the barrier he'd built. He could see that the world was the same beyond it. He could hear the voices and see the faces of his friends and family as they tried to reach him, but he felt safe behind it. Each day that he spent in safety behind it, the barrier grew more impenetrable … until now.

* * *

When Dr. Julia Hoffman arrived at the Windcliff Sanitarium, she was shown directly to Dr. Fisher's office. He was with a patient, but she helped herself to a cup of coffee from the percolator on his credenza. Though she was impatient to see Joe Haskell, it would be a major breech of protocol to ask to be taken to see him, without first consulting with his attending psychiatrist. So she sat waiting. She was pleased that Dr. Fisher still called on her with regularity when he encountered a challenging or intriguing case.

Dr. Fisher had first come to the area from Boston at the request of Elizabeth Stoddard. Julia was then the director of Windcliff. When her interests had led her to settle at Collinwood, he had been her first choice to succeed her at Windcliff. He was, perhaps, not the most naturally gifted or intuitive psychiatrist, and perhaps he was not as innovative or pioneering as Julia, but he was eminent in the field. He was an able administrator, and he had published treatises and papers that were widely read and informed by his ongoing work with patients. Most importantly, his eminence would never eclipse Julia's brilliance. Thus, she could pursue her own interests at Collinwood, safe in the knowledge that Geoff Fisher would continue to call on her—a status that pleased her immensely.

She stood balancing a saucer in one hand, taking measured sips of coffee with the other. She looked out of the large bay window at the sweeping grounds of the sanitarium.

"You look good there," came a smooth voice from the doorway behind her.

"I helped myself," she said indicating the coffee cup in her hand. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not. I'm glad you still feel at home here," he responded. She didn't reply, but bestowed a tight-lipped smile on him. He had often wondered why she chose to stay at Collinwood, wasting her talents on a single family. Even though he was happy to be in charge of the sanitarium, he frequently mused that he and Julia would make an unbeatable team together, both professionally and … "And I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. I was tending to a particularly restive patient."

"Not Joe, I hope," she as much as asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No. If it had been I would have sent for you at once."

She still marveled at his candor, and her satisfied look told him as much. "Tell me about Joe," she asked as she took a seat in front of the large wooden desk. He sat behind it, removed a file folder from the top drawer, and opened it in front of him. She grew impatient as his eyes skimmed the case notes. "On the phone, you said he spoke," she prompted him. He was ever the slow, methodical thinker. It was no wonder he made such a good administrator, but such an uninspired healer, she thought.

"More than spoke," he said after what seemed an eternity to Julia. "Julia, he seems to have made a complete recovery."

"Geoff, that's impossible! He's been in a near catatonic state for months."

"I was as shocked as you are." He added in a tone that communicated his derision, "More so, because the breakthrough seems to be as a result of art therapy."

" _Art therapy_?" Julia echoed.

"Yes, it seems Miss Pritchett has accomplished what the most talented psychiatrist could not."

She knew he meant her, and that he intended it as a compliment, but she didn't acknowledge it. Instead, she said, "Please tell me more."

"That's just it. There isn't much to tell. Miss Pritchett has taken it upon herself to work with Joe. In spite of his catatonia, she believed that something could _trigger_ a response in him." He stood and paced to the window. "I have to be honest with you, Julia. I don't … _didn't_ believe in the efficacy of art therapy. I thought it just another passing fancy with limited legitimacy. I'm afraid that Mr. Haskell's breakthrough has me rethinking my position."

"Hmmm." Julia emitted a skeptical hum from the back of her throat. "I would like to examine him myself."

"It seems he would like that too. He asked to see you— _by name_."

"Did he?" Julia's raised eyebrow served as a punctuation mark.

"As I say, his recovery is nothing short of miraculous."

She stood and returned the cup and saucer to the tray on his credenza. She looked to where she'd left her handbag and medical bag.

Dr. Fisher smiled. "Please feel free to leave your things here." Nodding toward a small closet in the corner, he added, "Your lab coat is in its usual place."

She sighed warily, silently wondering if she was somehow sending her old friend mixed signals.

* * *

Joe paced the length of the small treatment room while he waited for Dr. Hoffman to arrive. Then he sat. He remembered the times the orderlies brought him to this room or one of its mirror images elsewhere down the hall. He knew from the time he'd spent looking out from behind the wall of silence he'd built, to sit on the couch. The armchair beside it was reserved for the psychiatrist. He knew that though the room was designed to look comfortable and put patients at ease, Dr. Fisher would be on the other side of the ornately framed mirror observing him, even now. So he sat. It was important to look relaxed—to suppress nervous gestures or signs of agitation. They would not serve his goal. He settled back into the corner of the non-descript gray couch and waited.

In truth, she'd not kept him waiting long. Dr. Julia Hoffman looked exactly as he remembered—a professional brown skirt peaked out from beneath her white lab-coat, she wore sensible shoes to match. Her short auburn hair punctuated her sharp, incisive features. She carried nothing with her except a small notebook and a pen.

She smiled as she sat in the armchair. "It's good to see you again, Joe," she began in a voice that he now believed was false, and yet common to every psychiatrist who tried to treat him.

In response, he smiled too. "It's good to see you too, Dr. Hoffman. Thank you for coming to see me."

She opened the notebook. "Of course I came to see you. Your recovery is truly remarkable. I'm hoping you can tell me more about it."

"Of course, if I can," he said. He was Joe at his affable best.

"Good. Close your eyes and relax." As he closed his eyes, his lips curled into a small smile. "Tell me everything you remember about the moment you regained your voice."

"I was in the art therapy room," he began. "Miss Pritchett … well, she never gave up on me. She tried something different everyday—pictures, drawings, sculptures." His smiled deepened. "But it was seeing Mrs. Stoddard again," he said. "She sat with me. Miss Pritchett had given me a puzzle box." He paused.

"A _puzzle_ box?" Julia asked.

His eyes briefly fluttered open as he assessed her reaction. "Yes, it's just a cheap wooden box—I saw something like it in a souvenir store in Boston once. Mrs. Stoddard told me that she had one like it when she was a girl. She put her hands over mine. She thought together we could open the box." He paused and drew a deep breath. "It didn't open," he said in an even tone. "But there was something about her voice that reminded me of a time before things went bad. I _knew_. I knew I had to try—harder than I ever tried before. I wish I'd broken through when she was here. But after she'd gone, I was watching Miss Pritchett with the other patients, and it came back—my voice, my ability to share all the things that have been locked inside." He opened his eyes and looked at Julia.

"That's good, Joe—an excellent start. I want to talk more about that, but before we do, I want to go back farther. I want to take you back to that night," she said. "You know the night I mean. Don't you, Joe?"

Joe glanced over Julia's left shoulder at the mirror on the wall. He knew Dr. Fisher would be behind it, and maybe another psychiatrist as well. He moved forward and perched at the edge of the couch. Julia moved forward as well. He said in a confidential tone, "I was with Chris that night—and the moon—the _full moon_ was rising." He watched her closely to gauge her response.

"Go on," she urged.

"I think you know what happened," he said in a low voice. He let his eyes direct hers toward the mirror behind them. Her head turned slightly to follow his gaze. "You don't need me to say it out loud, do you?"

"No, I suppose I don't," she returned in a now-conspiratorial tone.

"I asked to see you, Dr. Hoffman, because I knew you'd understand."

"Joe …" she began. She closed the small notebook, retracted the ballpoint of her pen with a sharp click, and set them on the small table beside her. Her hand rested on top of them, relentlessly turning the pen between her thumb and her index finger.

"I want to go home, Dr. Hoffman … back to Collinsport." He punctuated this by taking her hand in his as though to still her restless movement.

* * *

 _Dr. Julia Hoffman had always considered herself a pioneer, not only because her gender was rare among the ranks of her profession, but also because her mind was open to all possible avenues of inquiry and she was unafraid to try unorthodox methodologies. While others in her profession chose a school of thought and then adhered slavishly to it, Julia was constantly looking to expand the boundaries._

 _She believed in the efficacy of hypnotherapy long before others in her profession afforded it much credence. She perfected it in her practice with patients. Her greatest accomplishments in this treatment modality came during her time at Collinwood, though she could hardly publish her findings._

 _She had been the head of Windcliff Sanitarium, respected in her field, perhaps destined for greatness. She'd thrown it all away in service to her inexplicable devotion to Barnabas Collins. She'd settled at Collinwood and become ensnared in its mysteries and oddities—more than ensnared, she'd become a protagonist in its ongoing story._

 _More and more, she had to remind herself that she was far more than the Collins family personal physician and psychiatrist. She was still_ Julia Hoffman _—the pioneer—a strong effective woman and psychiatrist, in her own right. Even if she no longer received the recognition she deserved, she was still a maverick, still making her own rules, still doing things her own way …_

* * *

Joe released Julia's hand. He leaned forward, moved to the edge of the couch, and resumed in a low, confidential voice, "I know it would be _unorthodox_ , but couldn't you continue my treatment in Collinsport? I've been away too long. Now that I'm myself again, I want to rebuild my life—brick by brick," he added and smiled.

Julia seemed to consider. At last, she said, "Unorthodox, maybe. But none of my colleagues here at Windcliff are skilled enough or bold enough to provide the type of treatment that I will. I can create a therapeutic environment anywhere, simply by bringing my unique approach to your treatment. I'll do it, Joe. I'll continue your treatment, but not in Collinsport. I'll arrange for you to come to Collinwood, where we can proceed in privacy and without interruptions."

* * *

Quentin drove down the main Collinsport Road, leaving work and the mill in his rearview mirror.

Long ago, the Collins lumber mill had been an adjunct to his family's primary business. In the early days, it was the mill that produced the raw materials for the Collins fishing fleet, which in turn fed the cannery. But times had changed and shipbuilding had evolved, leaving the mill anachronistic for its intended purpose, though still a going concern. Lumber from the mill still fed building projects throughout the area, including Quentin's own home, the former Peabody farm.

While Quentin from time to time at Roger's invitation went to the cannery, or filled in when Roger was away, he spent most of his time at the mill's small office. If he were a man given to poetic musing, he would have appreciated the view of the river on the banks of which the mill stood. It was truly picturesque, but the scene changed only in response to the seasons, and Quentin was not a man given to poetic musing. So leaving the mill behind, with its ledgers, minor crew injuries, stock delays, and other problems, he looked forward to being home and with Maggie once more.

He sometimes went to the Blue Whale after work, or joined Roger for drinks at the Inn. But more often, he headed straight home to his wife. He often thought that if the men who worked at the mill were married to women of Maggie's qualities, they would be content to head home rather than making a nightly pilgrimage to the tavern.

No question, Maggie remained the high point of everyday. No matter the differences that stood between them, he recognized that Maggie was special. At first, he thought it was her physical resemblance to his late fiancé Rachel that inspired his feelings for her. But it didn't take long for it to become clear that Maggie was her own person. He knew what she'd endured, and that she'd emerged stronger for it. He knew that the Collins family had filled the place in her heart that was left empty by the death of her father, and the emotional breakdown of her former fiancé, Joe. When they married, they made it official—she was a member of the Collins family.

He sighed aloud as he passed the drive that led to the Great House, and continued down the main road. He was not selfless—far from it—and his love for Maggie was not selfless. But she was more than a match for his moods. He believed she alone could see that part of him and apply the right combination of compassion and clear-eyed pragmatism.

And then there was the passion. There was no denying that in finding a woman of the 20th century, he'd found new expressions of sensuality. The simplest things from the clothes she chose, to the way she styled her hair, to the way she made up her face … he would watch her in the morning as she did her toilette, entranced by her bare arms and neck …

By now, the access road to the farm was in sight. He turned down the compressed gravel lane. They left the gates open now, seeing no need to close out the outside world. The open gate signaled that the farmhouse was a home again . He pulled the car up the lane and parked behind Maggie's small blue sedan. A patina of dust told him that she hadn't used her car that day. No doubt she'd walked to the Great House. He offered her a ride in the morning, but she'd turned him down, preferring to come and go at her leisure.

In the small entryway, he called out, "Maggie, I'm home." He expected her to be home. She'd called him around midday to say that she would be heading home immediately after David and Amy's last lesson—she would see him when he was done at work. He deposited his briefcase—a welcome to the family business gift from Roger—on a small table in the entryway, and headed to the front sitting room. Maggie was not there.

"Maggie," he called again. Perhaps she was in the kitchen or upstairs changing for dinner. He loosened his tie as he climbed the stairs that led to their bedroom. "Maggie?" She wasn't in the bedroom.

 _Where is she?_ He wondered silently, allowing a kernel of worry to manifest itself in his mind. More often than not, when she preceded him home, the sound of his car on the drive would alert her to his arrival. Sometimes, she would mix drinks and meet him in the sitting room. On these occasions, more often than not, dinner was left to wait until later. A lascivious smile came unconsciously to his face.

He'd check the kitchen next, he thought as he drifted to the window. The sun was kissing the horizon, though there was plenty of daylight left in the day. He looked out and his eyes swept over the grounds of the derelict farm that Maggie loved so well. It was then that he noticed it—the doors to the root cellar were wide open. He didn't check it daily, but the last time he had, the doors were shut and secured with a metal bar that had rusted slightly from disuse.

He took the stairs to the ground floor two at a time. Then he followed the passage that connected the main house to the smaller building that housed the kitchen—just to confirm that Maggie was not there. She was not. His chest tightened. She was in the root cellar.

Quentin stomped across the open farmyard that separated the farmhouse from the root cellar, animated by equal parts anger and worry. "Maggie!" he called out in a demanding voice as he neared the entrance to the cellar. "Maggie!"

He reached the cellar doors, and found the ladder had been lowered to the cellar floor. He peered down into the semi-darkness. Maggie stood with one foot on the bottom rung, poised to climb the ladder.

Hearing the urgency in his tone, she asked, "Quentin, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Come out of there," he demanded.

She felt an angry flush suffuse her face. _He'd better have a good reason for speaking to me that way_ , she thought as she carefully made her way up the ladder. "What is it?" she repeated. "What's wrong?" she asked again as she climbed out into the fading sunlight.

"What are you doing down there?" he continued. His tone verged on angry.

She tried to defuse the situation by tempering her own anger. She took a deep breath and began, "The root cellar would make a perfect workshop and studio."

"Workshop?" he asked, clearly confused.

She began again, "I've been thinking about what you said about how I don't need to work at the Great House anymore, but I _want_ to be doing something. And I've been thinking about getting back into arts and crafts—I plan to dry flowers and make potpourri. I can sell it at crafts fairs—even at stores in town. The root cellar will be a perfect workshop."

"No, Maggie," he said harshly. "I don't want you going down there again."

"Why?" she asked, in a tone more plaintive than she'd intended.

"It isn't safe," he told her gruffly.

"I was careful—I'll _be_ careful," she began, but he cut her off.

"Because, I said _no_ ," he said and turned back toward the house.

She followed him. A lump gathered in her throat and tears pricked her eyes. "I don't get it, Quentin. I don't understand, but I'm starting to think that you just don't want me to work at all. You don't want me to work at the Great House—and now, you don't want me to pursue my arts and crafts. What do you want me to do all day? Sit around waiting for you to come home, or maybe I should join the hospital board, like Elizabeth, and behave like a _real_ Collins."

He turned and faced her. "I forbid you to go back down into that cellar. I forbid it, Maggie."

"You can't forbid me," she shot back, as she allowed her anger to take over. "I'm not a child. I'll do as I like. If you have a reason, tell me. Otherwise …" She let that hang in the air.

"I should have filled that damn thing with concrete when we first moved in!" he shouted.

"No!" she responded, her anger dissolving into wretched disappointment. "I love this farm. I love everything about it."

"Well, I for one do not want to be another Barnabas Collins—clinging to the past," he said as he turned away from her, signaling their conversation was at an end.

"Where are you going?" she called to his departing figure.

"To the Blue Whale. I need a drink."

* * *

Quentin sat nursing brandy after brandy alone at the bar of the Blue Whale. Ed, the owner and barkeep, refilled his glass without waiting to be asked. As closing time approached, and the bar had emptied, Ed poured himself a brandy and joined Quentin.

It was only then that Quentin told him, "I don't understand women."

"Women?" Ed asked, "Or Maggie?"

"Both," Quentin responded. He could hardly tell the bartender the real reason for their disagreement, but he suddenly found he wanted to talk. So he said, "She insists on working. I can provide for her, give her a life of comfort, but she wants to work just the same."

"Maggie's a hard working woman. Always has been. She was never one to be idle, and her circumstances never permitted it," Ed told him, and punctuated it with a long swig of brandy.

"So, you're saying …" Quentin began.

But Ed cut in, "I'm saying just because that ring made her Maggie _Collins_ , doesn't mean she's not still Maggie Evans on the inside."

Quentin drained his glass. Clearly a life spent behind the bar made Ed a man with some insight into the human condition. If wanting Maggie not to work had been his real reason for being there, it would have made sense. But as it was, Maggie's interest in the root cellar dwarfed his concerns about her continuing to work. "Thanks, Ed," he said as he pushed himself away from the bar. "I'll think about what you said." Quentin ambled to the door and out into the night.

Later that night when Quentin returned to the farm, he found it completely dark within, but Maggie had left the porch-light on.

Just inside the entryway, he removed his shoes and crept up the stairs in his stocking feet, hoping not to wake his wife. But his feet seemed to find every squeaky floorboard. Even the hinges of their bedroom door seemed intent upon betraying him. He'd still been wearing his suit. He left it in a heap on the floor, and slid into bed in just his underwear.

Maggie was lying on her side, one arm under her head. Her bare shoulder peeked out from beneath the coverlet. He found himself filled with equal parts remorse and desire. He abandoned any pretense of stealth and whispered, "Maggie, are you awake?"

"You know I am," she returned irritably. "I was worried about you," she chastised him as she turned onto her back toward him. She propped a pillow against the headboard and sat up. "I may have dozed a bit, but I've been listening for the sound of your car."

"I'm sorry, Maggie," he said. "I'm sorry for everything." He put his head in her lap, and her fingers unconsciously raked his hair. "If you want to make art and crafts, you can make art and crafts; if you want a workshop, I'll build you a workshop—just not in that cellar. Promise me you won't go in there again."

She sighed—another mystery from the man she'd married. She'd convinced herself that she could live with him in the present—love him in the present—and that his past, whatever it was, didn't matter. Her love for him had blinded her to the realities of such a life. "Okay, I promise, but you have to promise not to fill it with concrete."

"I promise. Let's just close it and forget all about it. Do you think you can do that?"

"I can, if you can," she replied in a soothing voice that matched her touch, but belied her unanswered questions.

She had softened, as he knew she would. Once again he deferred the long overdue reckoning. He owed her the truth, but feared that it might cost him her love.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: A brief note to acknowledge the Dark Shadows Wiki, which has been a great resource for some of the details.

* * *

At the great estate of Collinwood, dark foreboding has become an expected part of life. Even as the residents enjoy a period of normality, specters from the past haunt every corner and threaten the future. The town's favorite son, Joe Haskell, has returned to the estate after a long absence. His return signals a change for the Collins family and its namesake town.

* * *

Joe Haskell's return to health—and to Collinwood—seemed to be all anyone in Collinsport wanted to discuss. He'd been back for nearly a week. Although he had not yet visited the town, it was widely known that Dr. Hoffman had brought him back from Windcliff, restored to his old self again. If the rumors were to be believed, he was living in the caretaker's cottage, once occupied by his cousin, Chris Jennings.

But Joe's recovery, which had initially seemed miraculous to Dr. Julia Hoffman, was now a source of frustration to the psychiatrist. After daily sessions for nearly a week, she knew nothing more about Joe's reengagement with the world, than she knew the day she was called to Windcliff. She had tried hypnotherapy, but whether he was resistant, or was one of those rare patients not susceptible to hypnosis, the approach had failed to reveal anything of interest.

She had pondered this that morning as she had a light breakfast, packed her medical bag, and headed on foot toward the caretaker's cottage. She had reviewed her notes of their sessions so many times, that she had committed them to memory verbatim. Then she reviewed the available literature in psychiatric journals—both historical ones that originally informed her work—and the latest developments in the use of hypnotherapy. Today she was armed with an adjunct to her preferred treatment modality—one she felt certain would lower the barriers she was encountering and yield the answers she sought.

When she arrived at the cottage, Joe was waiting. His bearing screamed impatience. He opened the door before she knocked, and ushered her in with a perfunctory greeting. Since his return to the estate, he and Julia had rearranged the furniture in the cottage's small sitting room to mimic that of a treatment room at Windcliff—the armchair was kitty-cornered to the small sofa. A small end-table occupied the space between. It was there that Julia placed her medical bag. Then she removed her coat and scarf and prepared to go to work.

In the days since Joe was released into her care, Julia had noticed a change in the young man, but she had struggled to name it. He'd generally been affable and easy-going, but since his return to Collinwood, his moods shifted quickly and without explanation. It wasn't unexpected—dark moods, excitability, and irritability—were all expected from someone who had experienced what he had. But there was something _more_. Julia felt sure of it. She hoped to elicit it under hypnosis.

Joe took a seat on the sofa and waited.

"So, how are you today, Joe?" Julia began in a tone cultivated by years of working with psychiatric patients.

"Ready to get back to my life, Dr. Hoffman. How much longer do I have to wait?" His tone was surprisingly aggressive to Julia's way of thinking.

"As I told you yesterday, Joe, I need to better understand your recovery, and you need to be prepared for the reaction of others to your return," she told him in a measured tone. "Sit back—relax."

Joe sat back on the small sofa, and assumed a posture he hoped would convey a sense of relaxation that he didn't feel.

Julia opened her medical bag and took out a hypodermic needle and small vial. Holding the vial in one hand, she inserted the needle and drew a dose of the liquid into the syringe. She gave the syringe a small squirt and turned back to Joe, syringe in hand.

Joe's eyes widened. "Wait, what's that?" he demanded.

Julia had found an article describing some success with using a mild muscle relaxer as an adjunct to hypnotherapy in resistant patients. She thought it might be the key that had eluded her. "It's a new treatment I'd like to try," she began. "This type of therapy is about being able to explore difficult or painful memories and experiences, in a safe setting. This," she said indicating the hypodermic needle, "will help you relax, and I hope, access those memories."

He caught her wrist with unexpected force. "No! I don't want that. In fact, I don't want any more treatment. I just want my old life back."

"I'm just trying to prepare you for that, Joe—for the changes that have taken place since you've been away at Windcliff, for the things people will think and say about you."

Joe stood and paced away from her. "I don't see how this is preparing me for anything. It's just delaying the inevitable. I've lived here my entire life—I know what people in Collinsport are thinking and saying about me, but I can't change that by hiding here. I'm done with your so-called treatment, Dr. Hoffman."

His tone was harsh, and surprised Julia. "Joe …" she began.

"I'm done Dr. Hoffman," he continued sharply. "I want to speak to Maggie and I want my job at the cannery back."

Now Julia felt she'd regained her footing. He might reject the treatment she was providing, but she still had information he'd need. "All right, Joe. I can't _force_ you to continue, but you're ending treatment against my advice … and there are a few things you should know."

* * *

"So, have you seen him yet?" Carolyn was looking particularly pert and put together, Maggie thought, especially given the early hour.

"No, not yet. You?" Maggie responded.

Carolyn poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Maggie. The two women took a seat across from one another in the small family dining room of the estate's Great House. "No. Julia says it's part of his treatment. Given all the time he spent in isolation, that too much too soon might overwhelm him."

"Actually, it suits me fine, Carolyn. I'm nervous about seeing him again."

Carolyn reached across the table, took Maggie's hand, and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

Maggie continued, "It's Amy I'm most concerned about. With Chris …" She searched for a suitable euphemism for abandoning your young sister, "away, Joe is her only relative. I know she's aching to see him again."

"Poor Amy," Carolyn said sympathetically. "Life really has dealt her a bad hand."

"Well, at least she has us. Speaking of which, I really should get back to her and David. They're in the library working on an essay, but I needed a mid-morning pick-me-up," Maggie said, indicating the coffee.

"Another late night?" Carolyn asked with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

A deep flush rushed from Maggie's décolletage to the roots of her dark hair. "Really Carolyn!" They rose and Maggie removed their cups from the table to the sideboard. "You look very nice," she commented, happy to turn the conversation away from how she'd spent her night. "Special plans today?" she asked. Her friend was wearing a suit she'd never seen before—a deep green jacket over a matching, pleated mini-skirt.

"Actually, I'm Mother's proxy at the hospital board meeting today. She had something urgent to attend to in Bangor, although I suspect this is all part of her plan to groom me to take over her role on the board."

Maggie chuckled sympathetically, as the two young women left the dining room and headed to the foyer. Once there, Carolyn retrieved her handbag and headed toward the door. "So will I see you when I get back?" Carolyn asked over her shoulder.

"That depends on what's on the hospital board agenda," Maggie replied with a smile. She went on, "I've been trying to head home as soon as lessons are over."

"Things are certainly different now that you're a married woman, Maggie," were Carolyn's parting words.

Maggie allowed herself a moment of rueful reflection. "You've no idea," she said under her breath, to herself.

* * *

By early afternoon, Maggie was as antsy for lessons to be over as David and Amy. Still, she exercised some discipline and made her young charges complete a set of math drills before wrapping up for the day. When she suggested they end the day with a walk in the woods, it was met with expected enthusiasm.

Maggie was content to allow the kids to run ahead and set the pace and the direction. She found herself observing them and their interactions. She noticed the way that David naturally dominated Amy. _He_ led the way; _she_ followed. When they bickered, it was David who settled the matter, and his perspective that prevailed. She thought about how Amy must feel her dependence on the Collins family, with her own family in a state of disarray.

Perhaps Carolyn was right. Attending school in town might help level the disparity between the two, and teach each of them social skills that would serve them well. David, of course, would always be a Collins. But for Amy, meeting other children her own age might boost her confidence.

Now Maggie noticed that they'd rambled further than she'd intended. She called to David and Amy to turn back—her voice carrying on the light, afternoon breeze. David turned back and ran past her, smiling and carefree. Amy doubled back too, but slowed to join Maggie. The girl's young face conveyed worries beyond what any child should have to endure.

Amy asked, "Do you think we could go by the cottage on our way back?"

"I'm sorry, Amy," Maggie began. She put her arm around Amy's shoulders. "Julia—Dr. Hoffman thinks it's too soon for Joe to have visitors. I'm sure she knows how much you want to see him, and she'll let us know."

"You want to see him too. Don't you, Maggie?" Amy's eyebrows drew together to punctuate the question.

The fact that she was genuinely happy that Joe had recovered enough to come home made it easy for her to respond, "Of course I do, but we have to follow Dr. Hoffman's advice. After all, she's his doctor and knows what's best."

Now the path back to the Great House loomed ahead. David had already arrived there and followed it out of their line of sight.

"Everything will work out," Maggie said reassuringly. "Now, why don't you run along and catch up to David. I'll be right behind you." She gave Amy's shoulder a small squeeze and then a pat to send her on her way.

Maggie watched the girl scramble down the path calling David's name. She put her hands in the pockets of her jacket, and followed them at a deliberate pace. When she arrived in the foyer, she found that David and Amy had waited for her. As she was taking off her jacket, she told them, "Why don't you go upstairs and wash up?"

David pulled a face, and said in a sarcastic tone, "If we have to …"

In contrast, Amy beamed, "Yes, Maggie," as she headed to the stairs.

Maggie could hear David say, "Suck up," as he joined Amy. She started to reprimand him, but was interrupted when the drawing room phone trilled loudly. David would have to wait. She sighed and went to answer the phone.

"Hello."

A long moment elapsed before she heard his voice. "Maggie, is that you?"

"Joe?" was her stunned reaction.

"Yes, it's me. It's so good to hear your voice again, Maggie."

After another long moment, she said, "I'm … I'm just so surprised. Julia said ... "

He broke in, "She released me from care today."

"I see. You must be doing better."

"Yes, I am, and the first thing I wanted to do was speak to you."

" _Me_?" She responded as though the idea never occurred to her.

"I need to speak to you, but not like this. Can you meet me?"

Maggie looked at her watch. Lessons were done for the day, and she would soon be heading home. She felt a pang of guilt as she said, "I could meet you in half an hour. Is that okay?"

"It's better than okay. I can't wait to see you, Maggie. Usual place?"

"Usual place," she said affirmatively.

* * *

"Thanks for meeting me, Maggie," Joe said as he approached the spot on the bluffs where they would often meet—what seemed a lifetime ago when they were engaged. Maggie was already there, looking out at the restless sea.

"Of course. I would have come by the cottage when you first got back, but I thought it best to wait until Julia gave the okay. You look well," she added awkwardly, unsure of what to say under the circumstances. And then, realizing how it might be interpreted, color stained her cheeks.

He either didn't notice or didn't care. He took a step toward her and reached out as though to caress her cheek. "Please don't! I'm married now." She took a step backward away from him, and all at once realized how close she was to the bluff's edge.

"I'm sorry, Maggie. I didn't mean anything by it. I … I just thought we'd find our way back to each other … after everything that happened. I thought you were the one constant—something I could count on."

"No, _I'm_ sorry. I overreacted. It's just that I didn't want to give you the wrong idea, and meeting here …" she gestured with her hand.

"In our spot," he finished for her. His expression hardened. "Julia told me you're married … to a _Collins_." He stuck his hands deep into his pockets. They instinctively curled into tight fists. He turned away from her.

" _Quentin_ Collins," she said.

"I never thought you'd marry one of them," he said turning back to face her.

Maggie's face suffused with confusion. "I don't understand. I thought you liked the Collins family. At one time, everyone thought you and Carolyn might get together, and it was Mrs. Stoddard who helped …" Here she hesitated.

"Go on," he prompted. "Helped me overcome my catatonic depression," he spat in a bitter tone.

"Yes," she said, still confused by this change in him.

His expression softened, and he once again looked like the Joe Haskell Maggie had always known—warm and caring, with an easy smile. "Of course, I'll always care for Mrs. Stoddard and Carolyn—Roger and David too. It's just that I don't know Quentin … I guess that's what I meant."

"He's a good man, Joe. He loves me and I love him. I wouldn't have settled for anything less," she told him, though the recent difficulties in their marriage crept unbidden into her mind.

"Then I look forward to meeting him, Maggie. I hope we can all be friends."

"I'd like that too."

An awkward silence ensued, before Maggie said, "Well, I should be getting home."

"Julia told me that you're fixing up the old Peabody farm," Joe said as they turned away from the bluffs and back toward the woods. "You always were intrigued by that old place."

"Yeah, I really love it." Maggie allowed herself an unguarded moment.

"And _Quentin_? Does he love it too?"

"No, but he knows how much I love it ... " she began. The moment it escaped her lips, she regretted having said it. It was something she might say to Carolyn, but not to Joe, not now. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He's a lucky man."

In that moment, he sounded like the Joe, Maggie knew so well. Yet, on the whole, he was different. "So, what was it like?" she asked on impulse.

"What was what like?" He seemed perplexed, then realized what she meant. "Oh." He grew thoughtful and serious. "Well, you know."

"No, I don't. I still don't know exactly what happened to me. I still have no memory of it," she admitted.

"Whereas I remember everything. But it was like I was trapped inside my own mind. I wanted to break out, but I lacked the will … the energy … the perseverance …"

"That must have been awful for you," she said softly.

"It was," his tone matched hers.

"Do you remember what caused you to … I mean, what caused it?" she ventured gently.

"I don't want to talk about it right now, but I'll never forget it." Then he added, "But I'm back now, and wanting to make up for lost time."

There was something in his tone, in his way of expressing himself—something that hadn't been there before. Maggie couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she was sure of it. He'd changed. _Of course he has,_ she mentally chastised herself. _It's only natural after what he's been through._

They walked in silence for a time, until Maggie slowed her steps. "This is the path I take back to the farm," she said.

"Thanks again for meeting me, Maggie. I don't suppose your husband would be pleased to know we were meeting like this," he tried to play it off lightly.

Maggie silently agreed, which was why she had no intention of telling her husband that she was the first person her ex-fiancé sought out. Instead she said, "And when will you see Amy?"

"Amy?" he asked as though the thought never occurred to him.

Maggie smiled, "Your cousin, Amy. Brown hair, about this tall," she gestured with her hand.

"Of course, I plan to see Amy, but I just got released from Julia's care today," he snapped irritably. Seeing her surprised expression, he added, "I'm sorry, Maggie. I'm just tired." He went on, speaking in a rush of words, "I just want everything to get back to normal. Maybe it was too much, too soon." He took a retreating step toward the woods.

"Goodbye, Maggie."

"Joe," she started, but he was gone—taking long strides and retreating into the woods in the direction of the cottage. Maggie stood for several moments watching his figure until it disappeared into a thicket of trees. Then she turned toward the farm, her mind aswirl with concern.

* * *

 _Why?_ Joe asked himself again and again as he made his way through the woods. Why hadn't he taken her hand in his? Why hadn't he kissed her and reminded her of the life they planned together—the life they could have together—the life he was trying to reclaim. He'd been too passive. It was not a good start; it was not the start he'd envisioned.

He reached the junction of two paths—one that led back to the cottage; the other that led toward the Collinsport Road—toward town. He could return to the cottage to regroup, to wait for Julia to return with another hypodermic needle full of heaven knew what, or … or he could go into town and take another step toward reclaiming his life. The decision was made. He needed a drink and where better than the Blue Whale.

But now he found his energy waning—too much to walk into town. He must return to the cottage to retrieve Chris's car. Julia would not approve, but then she was no longer his keeper. He was free—he would do as he pleased.

Once inside the cottage, he went at once to the small desk in the main sitting room. He knew from long acquaintance, that Chris kept the spare car key there. He opened the top drawer and retrieved the key. He smiled and turned toward the door, but found himself suspended for a moment.

Turning back to the desk, he opened the second drawer. It was there that he had put the box. He had asked Miss Pritchett if he could take it with him when he left Windcliff; she had graciously agreed—more than agreed, she saw it as an aid to his "ongoing recovery and restoration to health." Joe laughed aloud at the thought. He ran a finger over the inlaid design on the box's lid. Though he mocked her for it, Miss Pritchett was right, the box was important to him. He slammed the drawer shut and pulled himself away.

Later, he headed down the Collinsport Road. The freedom of being behind the wheel again felt incredibly good. The same way food tasted better, and his bed was more comfortable—everything was more vibrant, more satisfying now. He smiled at the thought, and pressed the accelerator even more. The car sped down the road. Though the air was cool, he rolled down the window, rested his arm there, and let the air rush over it. He relished the speed and the freedom, until his eyes found the rearview mirror and the lights it reflected.

He pulled to the shoulder of the road and waited. A moment later, a familiar face appeared at the window, ticket book in hand. "May I see your license and registration?" the man began in rote recitation. Then, upon seeing the car's driver, he continued, "Joe? Joe Haskell? We'd heard you were back. It's good to see you, son."

Joe put on his most sincere smile. "Sheriff Patterson, it's good to see you too. Not the best circumstances though," he added.

The sheriff nodded his agreement. "Where're you headed?"

"Into town for the first time since I got back," Joe answered, as he reached into his pocket.

Sheriff Patterson waved him off. "Don't bother with the license and registration. I know you well enough without it. I can understand you're excited to get back into the swing of things," the sheriff began.

"You have no idea," Joe interjected.

The sheriff continued, "Maybe not, but I'm going to let you off with a warning this time, Joe, but do me a favor and slow down. The speed limit on this road hasn't changed since you've been away," he added as he flipped his ticket book shut. "See you around town sometime. Take it easy, Joe," he said in conclusion then made his way back to the squad car.

Joe turned over the engine, pulled back onto the road, and made his way into Collinsport, staying scrupulously within the posted speed limit.

* * *

When Joe arrived at the Blue Whale that afternoon, it was all but empty. It was too early for the cannery and mill workers to be there for an after-work drink, and far too early for the regulars who frequented the bar in the evening to socialize and unwind. One lonely patron was drinking at a corner table—his back to the door.

Ed, the Blue Whale's owner and barkeep, emerged from the storeroom at the sound of the door. "What can I …" He began, and then seeing who it was, continued "Joe! Joe Haskell—I heard you were back in Collinsport. Welcome back. What can I get you? Still a bourbon man?"

"Bourbon sounds good." Looking around, Joe said, "I guess I'm too early to catch up with the guys from the cannery."

Ed placed the drink in front of Joe on the bar. "Yeah, most of the guys won't be rolling in for another hour or so. Not your friend, Jerry, though."

Joe took a long, appreciative swig of bourbon. "Oh?"

"Jerry's not working at the cannery anymore. He's got his own boat."

"What?"

"Yeah, not long after …" the bartender began, and then continued, "well, not long ago, Peg's mother died and left them a small nest-egg. They used it to buy that boat he's always wanted."

" _We_ always wanted." Joe corrected him.

"Oh, that's right," Ed said, oblivious to the change in Joe's demeanor. "You two were planning to pool your resources and buy a boat. I remember the two of you down at the end of the bar, your heads together, figuring out the finances and looking at ads for boats for sale."

"I remember that too," Joe said with thinly disguised bitterness in his tone.

Ed went on affably, "Well, he doesn't get in here often anymore, and when he does, he arrives late and doesn't stay long."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, well, you know how it is … he's out with the boat, then he has to tend to the day's catch, and ready the boat for the next day."

"I'd really like to catch up with him. Where do you think I can find him?" Joe asked.

"This time of day—probably down at the docks. _Peggy's Pearl_ it's called."

Joe drained his glass. "I think I'll head over there now," he said, reaching in his pocket for his wallet.

"This one is on me," Ed told him.

"Thanks, Ed."

"You should come back later when all the guys are here. I know it's tough, but I'm sure they'll be happy to see you."

"Sure will. Maybe tomorrow." With that, Joe left the Blue Whale and headed on foot to the Collinsport docks in search of his old friend, Jerry Gerse.

* * *

Joe asked the first dockworker he saw where he could find Jerry's boat. He recognized the man by sight, but not by name. Like the town itself, the docks were small enough that most people knew most other people. The older man pointed out at once where _Peggy's Pearl_ would be docked.

Joe found it in short order. Jerry was hosing off the deck. "Permission to come aboard," Joe called loud enough to be heard above the sounds of the docks at work.

Jerry turned and beamed his greeting. "Permission granted. If it isn't Joe Haskell! I heard you were back. What took you so long to come see your good friend, Jerry?" he asked as Joe climbed aboard.

"Oh, you know doctors," Joe murmured vaguely.

"Yeah," Jerry responded in kind.

Once onboard, Joe noticed a young deck hand, whose face bore the ravages of his youthful hormones. The young man acknowledged him with a curt nod.

Jerry said, "Tommy is helping me out after school." Jerry turned to the young man. "We're pretty much done here. Why don't you take off?" The young man jumped at the chance, and quickly began removing his work apron and boots. Jerry turned off the hose and retracted it. Then he pulled off his own apron, boots, and work gloves, leaving them on deck. To Joe, he said, "Let's go in the cabin."

Joe followed him inside the small cabin. Jerry pulled out a bottle of bourbon and two plastic cups from the small cupboard. He poured them each a drink and they sat at the small table that served for all purposes. He raised his cup to Joe. "It's good to have you back," he said by way of a toast.

Joe took a sip, as the occasion called for it. They drank in silence for a moment. Joe noticed the gentle pitch and rock motion of the boat. It should have been his.

Jerry broke the uncomfortable silence by saying, "It's everything we thought it would be, Joe." It was unintentional salt in the suddenly festering wound. "We had no way of knowing that Peg's mother was not just a shrew, she was a miser as well."

Jerry had expected Joe to join in gently mocking his late mother-in-law, but instead Joe said, "Worked out pretty well for you."

Jerry colored. "Yeah. It was Peg who insisted we use the money to buy the boat, though. It's our legacy for Jerry, Jr." He pulled out his wallet and showed Joe a picture of his infant son. "You remember Peg was expecting."

"How could I forget? That's why we put our plans on hold," Joe said in a flat tone. "And look at you now? You have everything _we_ ever wanted." Then he softened his demeanor. He finished his drink and rose. He extended his hand to Jerry, in an unspoken gesture of friendship. They shook on it.

* * *

 _Jerry Gerse had grown up near Collinsport. When he was old enough, he'd taken a job at the Collinsport Cannery, and married his high-school sweetheart. He'd worked side-by-side with Joe Haskell, and over the years they'd become good friends. They shared the same dream—they dreamt of owning their own boat, and being their own men._

 _It was Joe's idea to pool their money to reach that goal more quickly. Over drinks at the Blue Whale, Joe suggested that if they bought a boat together, they could finance a second boat with the profit. Joe had laughed and said that before long they would have a fleet to rival that of the Collins family itself._

 _Jerry knew that Joe was joking about that, but he also knew that Joe had the brains and the will to make good things happen for both of them. When Joe was promoted to checker at the cannery, both thought they were on their way._

 _Then Peg told him she was pregnant. Rather than saving to finance his shared dream with Joe, their baby must be their priority. He felt terrible the day he had to tell Joe, but as always, Joe had taken the news well. He'd sincerely congratulated his friend and put his dream on a longer timetable._

 _By the time Peg's mother had passed away and left them the money that financed his boat, Joe was in no condition to join him in the business—and even if he had been, he no longer needed a partner to finance his dream. He had always believed that Joe, with his head for business, would manage the books and run the business end of things, and he would manage the boat. But with Joe out of the picture, Peg had stepped up, doing the books when the baby slept._

 _He felt guilty about how things had worked out—terribly, inexplicably guilty about it. Often, he would think that if he had fallen in with Carolyn Stoddard and her crowd, instead of Joe, and had come to the attention of the Collins family, and fallen prey to their curse, it might be him who was taken away to Windcliff Sanitarium and Joe who managed to buy a boat and start a business—maybe marry Maggie and start a family of his own._

 _Peg had dismissed his feelings, telling him that he had nothing to feel guilty about, and things just work out the way they do. Joe had had a bad break, and Jerry had had some good luck. It was as simple as that. He wanted to believe her, but each day as he went to work on Peggy's Pearl, he felt like he had somehow stolen Joe's dream and was living a life he didn't quite deserve._

* * *

"Sorry, I sounded … oh, I don't know … a little jealous," Joe said as he released Jerry's hand. "Sorry, Jer. I didn't mean anything by it. All I want, now that I'm back, is to rebuild my life."

"I understand. I'd want the same if I were in your shoes. I'm sorry, Joe. I know how it must seem—like I got everything you ever wanted. I can't tell you how bad I feel that things worked out this way. You deserve better."

"Think no more about it, Jer. Maybe someday I'll be as fortunate as you." Joe made his way to the cabin door, steadying himself against a gentle pitch to the left, and a roll back to the right. "I guess I'll be seeing you around," he said as he took his leave. Back on shore, he gazed for a few long moments at the _Peggy's Pearl_. Then he walked back up the docks toward his car, whistling a carefree tune. It was good to be back.


	4. Chapter 4

A new day dawns on the great estate of Collinwood. Like so many others, this day will reveal a new mystery. As one man readjusts to life in his hometown, another's unexplained disappearance is a harbinger of things to come, and an old terror resurfaces to threaten its unsuspecting residents.

* * *

When Joe arrived at the cannery the next morning, the scene took him back to the days before the dark times began. He'd been happy there, in spite of the long days and hard work. He'd been good at his job and respected by the men who worked along side of him. He'd put in his hours, but more than that, he'd done his job with excellence. He saw it as a down-payment on his future—a future that included having his own boat and returning everyday to Maggie.

He pulled Chris's car into the parking lot; it was nearly full, as the men who worked there had already reported to work. As he approached the lane that separated the parking lot from the main cannery building, he noticed a sheriff's cruiser parked in a space normally reserved for trucks loading and unloading. At that moment, the door of the cannery building opened and Sheriff Patterson himself emerged. Their eyes met and there was no escaping the interaction.

"Sheriff Patterson," Joe nodded and moved to enter the building without further engagement with the officer.

"Joe," the sheriff responded, as he reached into his breast-pocket. "I was hoping to see you later. But since you're here, do you have a minute?"

"I have an appointment with Mr. Collins."

"This won't take but a minute," the sheriff responded. By now, he had a small notebook and pen in hand.

"Okay." Joe drew a deep breath.

"Jerry Gerse appears to be missing," Sheriff Patterson began in a matter-of-fact tone.

" _Jerry_?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so and you may have been the last person to see him."

"Jerry's missing," Joe said, letting it sink in.

"He didn't come home last night. Peg called me this morning in a panic. Technically, I'm not supposed to consider him missing for 24 hours, but Peg was so upset. I thought I'd set her mind at ease. I figured he probably just fell asleep onboard _Peggy's Pearl_. So I went down to the docks, and guess what?" the sheriff asked.

"I have no idea," Joe responded. "What?"

"He'd taken the boat out." The sheriff continued, "A little while later my deputy radioed me to say there's a boat adrift out in the cove. It could be Jerry's. So we took a skiff out there, and guess what?" Sheriff Patterson asked, shaking his head sadly.

"What?" Joe asked with a hint of irritation.

"It's the _Peggy's Pearl_ all right, but no one's onboard," the sheriff responded. "It seems Jerry really is missing. And you may have been the last one to see him, Joe." Joe began to respond, but the sheriff held up a hand to stay his words. "How did he seem to you?"

Joe turned away from the sheriff and considered. "What do you mean?" He let his words drift over his shoulder.

"Did he seem despondent? Anxious? Did he say anything odd? You know, how did he seem? "

Joe turned back to face Sheriff Patterson. "He seemed like Jerry." He took a tentative step toward the building. "I'm really sorry to hear it, and if there's anything else I can do, just let me know, but I don't want to keep Mr. Collins waiting.

The sheriff flipped his notebook shut. "Thanks for your time, Joe. It's good to see you back, and getting into the swing of things again. I hear you're staying at Collinwood," the sheriff asked.

"That's right. I'm staying in the caretaker's cottage for now."

"Well, I bet little Amy is happy to have you nearby." Joe colored knowing he'd not yet seen his young cousin. If he noticed Joe's embarrassed blush, he said nothing. Instead he continued, "If I have anymore questions for you, I'll look you up there." He tucked the notebook into his jacket pocket, and headed to his waiting cruiser.

* * *

Roger Collins maintained an impressive office at the Collins family cannery. Its handsome wood furnishings, small liquor cabinet, and plush Oriental rug set it apart from that of the cannery manager and others merely employed there. It was an office that conveyed his ownership. In truth, he would have preferred to maintain an office elsewhere—ideally at his men's club in Boston, but even the new office building in Bangor would have done. But down through the decades, the Collins family patriarch always oversaw the operation of the cannery, and always maintained an office there—the same office that he now occupied. No matter how little time was spent there, it was an expectation.

On this day, he was there mostly to show the flag. There were no pressing matters to attend to—just business as usual—an old, established business that practically ran itself, or so it seemed to him. He would have happily absented himself after an hour or two, but he had agreed to meet Joe Haskell there. He could guess the young man's purpose in asking to see him—and of course, he would have to consent, but not before trying to do the right thing for his family.

An antique clock sat on the desk beside a recent photograph of his son, David. He glanced at the clock, hoping to conclude his meeting in time to drive to Bangor for lunch and a visit to his tailor. But as it was, the young man was already a few minutes late. The thrum of his impatient fingers was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in."

The door opened, Joe peeked in, and offered Roger a shy smile.

"Joe—come in. It's good to see you—and returned to health. Julia says your recovery is nothing short of miraculous. And of course, I take Julia's assessment very seriously," Roger prattled on nervously. "Take a seat, please."

"Thank you, Mr. Collins. I suppose you know why I've come to see you."

Roger shifted uncomfortably in his desk chair. "Ahem," he cleared his throat. "Well, I … I can guess."

Joe intervened to end the older man's evident discomfort. "I'd like to come back to work at the cannery."

"Yes, I guessed as much," Roger began. He adopted his most serious countenance and continued, "To be honest, Joe, I'm surprised that you've chosen to return to Collinsport. You're still a young man; there are opportunities aplenty elsewhere. It will be nearly impossible to pick up where you left off," he said as discouragement.

"I know that, Mr. Collins, but you know, more than ever, I'm ready to get back to normal—as soon as possible. I've wasted enough time as it is."

"Yes," Roger began in a serious tone. "You know, Joe, we think of Maggie as quite one of our own. And of course, Quentin _is_ a Collins and quite established managing the mill. Perhaps, for all of your sakes, it would be better if you were to begin again somewhere else, perhaps Bangor. I have connections there, and of course, I'd be happy to help you."

"Help me stay away from Maggie and Quentin," Joe said flatly.

"It might be what's best—for you as well," Roger said with finality. "At least consider my offer."

Roger stood, and Joe joined him. Joe extended his hand. Roger took the proffered hand and shook it warmly.

* * *

 _Roger Collins was the latest in a long line of Collins family patriarchs. It was a role he wore well, and wore with pride—pride in his family and its name, in the businesses they built, and in his standing and stature in Collinsport and beyond. He was a proud man, in most every respect except one._

 _While Roger did not have a weakness for women, his weakness was in invariably choosing poorly. He loved his son David, as much as any father loved his son, but David's mother had been a mistake of the first order. Yes, he had made his share of mistakes, but they paled in comparison to the day he wed Laura._ _Her treachery, her duplicity had led him to keep his own son at arm's length for many years._

 _Following Laura's departure from his life, he lived a solitary, bachelor's life, without committing to another woman, until he met Cassandra. He had fallen for her and fallen hard. Everyone else could see what he could not, that she did not love him, as he did her … that her intentions were self-motivated. She tried to separate him from his family, but in the end, she too had exited his life, leaving him with a wife in name only._

 _Women, he decided, were fickle and untrustworthy. But the townspeople of Collinsport were as predictable as women were duplicitous. They hungered for rumors and gossip, especially the kind that demonstrated the fallibility of the Collins family. He knew what they said about Laura, and again when his wife Cassandra disappeared as mysteriously as she appeared in his life. While he knew as a Collins, he was above their behind-the-back comments, it was David that worried him. Such gossip and whisperings meant little when he was too young to understand their meaning. But now as his son stood at the cusp of adolescence …_

* * *

Joe said, "I have considered and Collinsport is my home. I was just starting to build something, when …" His tone and demeanor became confidential. "I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone else. The thing that started it all … that started the series of things that almost broke me," he clarified, "was a woman."

"Oh?" Roger's curiosity was piqued.

"Yes—a woman very much like your wife Cassandra."

Roger turned away and looked out of the window.

Joe continued, "Her features were very much like Cassandra's, but her coloring was fair, and she had blond hair. In every other respect, she could have been your wife's twin." He saw Roger's shoulders rise and then drop as he exhaled a deep sigh. "She sought me out, and she …" he paused dramatically, "she robbed me of my will. She was all I could think of, and to this day, I've no idea why she chose me."

"I see. And you've never told anyone about this?" Roger asked, as he turned back to face the younger man across the desk from him. "Why not?"

"Perhaps out of a sense of loyalty to your family," Joe said.

"Loyalty? To my family?" Roger asked in a haughty tone. "I don't see how …" he began.

"If she is your wife's sister—and I believe she is—her behavior—and the renewed interest in your failed marriage that the story would have inspired. You know how tawdry the local press can be. Well, I thought it would be unwelcome to you, Mrs. Stoddard, Carolyn, and _David_. All this time, I've been protecting the Collins family name and reputation, and now I'm asking so little from you—all I want is the chance to rebuild my life."

* * *

The sun was already hanging low in the sky when Quentin set aside a sheaf of paperwork and turned his thoughts to the evening ahead. He'd spent another afternoon reviewing and approving bills of lading and shipping manifests. The work was now routine—repetitive even. He stood, stretched, and went to the window overlooking the mill, which was shutting down for the day in the waning sunlight. Its workers were leaving in groups of two and three, lunch-pails in hand.

It was the end of another day that characterized the life that Collins men were expected to live—except perhaps a bit more constrained in that he was not the master of Collinwood—and thus could not come and go as he liked. Neither was he a Collins family dependent or employee. He occupied a space somewhere in between. Had he been Roger's sibling, he would have described it as the classic second son role. Indeed, had he lived out his life in his original timeline, this was the life he would have eventually lived. As it was, he had chosen this life—a life of conformity—for the love of a woman.

He called his wife. Then, he put two folders into his briefcase, though he had no intention of referring to them, and headed to his car. It was a Blue Whale night. A couple of times each week, he would find himself at the local tavern for a drink and conversation. On slow nights, he would sit at the bar and chat with the owner and barkeep, Ed. Sometimes, he would take a table, and nearly every week, Sheriff Patterson would show up for a chat and a drink. Other than Roger, they were his only male friends, if you could call them that. Still, he enjoyed their companionship, and spending time at the Blue Whale seemed like a small reward for a day spent in conventional occupation.

On this evening, the small tavern was busy. There were two knots of workers already at the bar. Quentin wedged himself between the two groups, nodded to Ed, and received—unasked for—a brandy, which he took to a table by the window.

He felt it—the now familiar tension welling up inside of him. He looked absently out the window. A nearly full, waxing moon had risen into the evening sky. He took a deep swig of brandy, draining the glass. The roar of collective laughter erupted from one of the groups of workers at the bar—probably punctuating a well told joke.

A moment later he sensed, rather than saw, someone approaching his table. He looked up, expecting it to be the sheriff. Instead, a much younger man stood before him—a brandy in one hand and bourbon in the other.

"May I join you?" the man asked in a friendly tone. "My friends told me that you're Quentin Collins, and I wanted to introduce myself. I'm Joe Haskell," he said as he set the drinks on the table and sat.

"Joe," Quentin replied, taking the brandy and raising the glass to his companion. Joe met it with his. "I've heard a great deal about you," he offered in a mannered, noncommittal tone.

"Likewise. We have a lot in common, you and I," Joe said then paused. When Quentin merely raised an eyebrow and eschewed the bait, he added, "Everyone is talking about Quentin and Maggie. So, you're the man who won Maggie's heart."

"My _wife_ is a wonderful woman."

"She has been for as long as I've known her," Joe countered.

Quentin momentarily felt a surge of the barely-suppressed wolf within.

Joe went on, "She's not all we have in common."

"Oh?" Quentin feigned nonchalance.

"Roger has asked me to return to the cannery … to be his _manager_ -in-training," Joe added with emphasis.

Quentin would have taken the bait had Ed not appeared at their table. "Let me take your empty," the barkeep said to Quentin. "Everything all right here?"

"Never better," Quentin answered with an unmistakable sneer. He drowned it in another pull on his drink.

"We're just getting acquainted," Joe added.

"Uh huh," Ed said as he reached for Quentin's empty glass. "Glad to hear it," he added as he ambled away.

"I'm glad Roger's found a manager- _in-training_ he can trust," Quentin said disingenuously. "The mill is completely my responsibility and I rarely find myself at the cannery, and I can't think of any reason you'd need to visit the mill. So I see no reason we can't just stay out of each other's way."

"Fine with me," Joe agreed.

Quentin drained his second brandy and stood. Joe joined him and extended his hand. They shook on it, in service to an age-old, masculine tradition.

* * *

 _Quentin Collins was a haunted man. He realized now that no man can outrun his deeds and misdeeds. He had mistakenly believed that he could use the I Ching to change his past. Instead it had delivered him to a different point in time. In the process, it had given him a second chance in life—a chance to make different choices, to be someone different. And for the most part, he had embraced the opportunity to begin again. He'd been propelled to 1968, and been embraced by the Collins family he found there._

 _But once a month, when the full moon shone in the night sky above Collinwood, he knew that there was no escaping his past—no escaping the man he used to be. For each time the moon was full, the shadow of the curse of the werewolf crept over him. Though he no longer became the beast, the curse lived on in his memory and his moods. He could feel it surging to life within him as the full moon rose._

 _Had he still lived in his own timeline—in 1897—he would not have cared. No one in that time had better expectations of him. But in 1968, he had found love again. What animated him and drove his fear and anxiety about the wolf, was his wife, Maggie. Against his own natural inclinations and temperament, he fell in love with Maggie, and equally inexplicably, she fell in love with him. She accepted him without knowing what he was and what he'd done. In spite of his moods, and even after their disagreements, she would look at him with an expression that spoke her love for him—he was haunted everyday knowing that he might extinguish that light in her eyes if she ever learned the truth—she might never look at him that way again._

* * *

The night felt welcoming despite the nearly full moon that had now risen and hung over the horizon. Quentin had retrieved his car and made his way down the Collinsport road back toward the estate and the farm. He'd left the window partially open, enjoying the breeze it created.

As he drove, he began to feel oddly flushed and warm. He rolled the window completely down and let the air wash over him. Then he loosened his tie, but by now beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He felt ill—profoundly ill. He pulled the car to the side of the road and got out. He shed his tie, and then his jacket. Feeling a wave of nausea sweep over him, he took a few tentative steps toward the woods that bounded the road. All at once the feeling overwhelmed him. He dropped to his hands and knees—just as he had _that_ night.

 _Hear me now, Quentin Collins, for I place this curse on you. From now until the end of your days, you and all your descendants will bear the mark of my gypsy curse. The full moon that reflects in lovers' eyes will bring you only misery. This is my curse upon you._

Magda's gypsy curse rang in his ears. It was as though he was reliving that night. He could feel … _What? Could it be? But how? How was it possible?_ He could feel the curse surging to life again. He could feel it—when the full moon rose, he would once again become the wolf.

* * *

As the nausea subsided, Quentin pulled himself up to stand. He retrieved his jacket and tie, and returned to the car. He sat for a long while—his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, his forehead resting between them. He knew he must look disheveled—unfit to be seen by anyone—especially his wife. She would know at once that something was wrong. Besides, he needed a plan. When the moon waxed full, probably the following night, he would turn into the wolf once again, and the thought of it filled him with fear and revulsion. He would put everyone around him at risk.

 _Julia_ , he thought. He must see Julia. She would know what to do. She would help him.

He turned over the engine, and pulled out onto the road. He sped down the main road to the junction of the drive that led to the Great House. Rational thought eluded him. Reflections and memories of the werewolf curse paraded across his consciousness—the pain as his body transformed from man to beast, the detritus of the wolf's mindless fury, and of course, the killings. He was innocent of one, but had orchestrated the other. Either way, the feeling the morning after killing was one he'd never forget. Thanks to the I Ching, decades had now passed, but at the same time, it had happened not so long ago, and the memories were fresh and visceral.

* * *

" … So I offered him a position as manager-in-training," Roger concluded.

"Really, Roger. Don't you think it's too much responsibility, too soon?" His sister countered.

Roger stood before the fireplace, brandy in hand. Elizabeth sat on the couch near the fireplace, looking up at him with concerned eyes.

"No, I don't, Liz," Roger fumed back. "You know Joe. He wouldn't have asked for the responsibility if he didn't believe he could handle it."

"But do _you_ believe he can handle it?"

"Please leave the business decisions to me, Liz," Roger began in a testy tone. He was interrupted by the sound of the front door, followed immediately by an urgent knock on the drawing room door. "Come in."

Quentin threw the door open with more force than he'd intended. He looked almost wild—no jacket or tie, his collar undone, and his hair in disarray.

Elizabeth rose. "Quentin—What's wrong?"

"Is Julia here?" he asked without the customary pleasantries.

"Is everything all right? Is Maggie okay?" Elizabeth persisted.

Then Roger intervened. "She's in the library," he said, with a look at his sister that at once seconded her curiosity and chastised her for it.

When Roger looked back, Quentin had gone.

* * *

Quentin found Julia in the library. He knocked and barely waited for her invitation before entering. He practically slammed the door shut behind him. "Julia," he began as he strode across the room to where she sat reviewing a medical journal, "I need your help—desperately."

"Quentin?" The doctor looked up perplexed by the interruption. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"The curse is back. _The curse is back!_ Julia, I need your help." He told her.

"It can't be. Sit down and tell me what makes you think the curse has returned," Julia responded in her psychiatrist voice.

Quentin slumped into the seat across from where she sat at the desk. "I was driving home when I … I felt it. It was just like that night … the night that Magda put the curse on me. I pulled over and I heard her voice."

"How?" Julia was incredulous. "Why now, after all this time would the curse reemerge?"

Quentin buried his face in his hands. He sat silently as he rewound the evening in his mind. " _He_ did something to trigger the curse," he said at last.

"Who, Quentin?"

He looked up at her. "Joe—Joe Haskell."

" _Joe_? That's impossible, Quentin. Why would Joe do that? And how?"

"He put something in my drink—just like Magda did. That's how it all began. And Joe must have found out somehow," he continued, his voice rising in agitation.

"Calm down. Let's think this through together. Tell me what happened."

He rose and recounted the evening's events as he paced the room. Finally, once again standing before the desk, he concluded, "Don't you see? That's how he did it. As to why, isn't it obvious? He wants Maggie back."

"Did he say that?" Julia asked reasonably.

"No, not in so many words. He didn't have to say it, Julia."

"May I suggest a different scenario?"

"What?"

"Quentin, do you think it's possible that you're feeling …" She searched for a tactful way to say it. "… that you're feeling some anxiety about Joe's return? The fact that Maggie doesn't know about the werewolf curse … well, do you think it's possible that subconsciously you believe that if she knew about it—knew what you were—what you did—that she would choose Joe over you?"

"Julia …" he began.

But Julia said, "Hear me out. It makes sense that if the curse is a lie of omission that stands between you and Maggie, that that's where you would focus the anxiety you're experiencing."

"I came to you for practical help, Julia, not to be psychoanalyzed. Can you help me or not? I need a cure or a treatment before the full moon tomorrow," he snarled.

Julia raised an eyebrow, but said with more patience than she felt, "I'm sorry, Quentin. I wasn't able to find a cure to the werewolf curse. I failed Chris," she admitted. "The only thing I can do to help …"

"Yes?"

"… I can give you a strong sedative."

"Did you try that with Chris?" he asked.

"Yes." She paused as though assessing. She went on, "With limited effectiveness I'm afraid. We still had to chain him up as a precaution. But honestly, Quentin, I don't think you'll need it—I still don't believe based on everything you've told me that the curse will return. I just see no evidence to support that conclusion," she added to underscore her scientific bone fides.

"And what if you're wrong? Don't you see, we have to try, Julia. Can you come to the farm tomorrow before sunset?"

"To the farm? What about Maggie?" Julia asked in quick succession.

"I have to tell Maggie. He's forced my hand," he said.

"Quentin, I still don't …"

He cut her off impatiently, "Will you help me or not?"

"Of course." She eyed him closely. "Of course, I'll help you. I'll see you at the farm tomorrow."

* * *

Maggie settled herself on the couch in the sitting room with a cup of tea, and a mystery novel she'd borrowed from the Collinwood library. By now she knew that on those evenings when her husband would stop in at the Blue Whale for a drink before returning home, more often than not, he would call to say he'd lost track of time. He'd apologize and not repeat the behavior for at least a week. Maggie was glad that he limited his visits to a few times a week. On this night, their dinner would keep and be no worse for it.

She'd been tempted to light a fire, but in the end, languor won out, and she pulled an afghan over her lap instead and opened the book.

From beyond the windows, she heard a bang, and then another. It sounded as though a shutter was open and was now flapping in the wind, banging arhythmically open and closed. At first she thought it could wait until Quentin returned, but soon the distraction grew overwhelming. She went to the entryway and put on her pea-coat; then she grabbed a flashlight.

A quick survey of the exterior of her home showed no loose shutters, and still the noise persisted. With only the flashlight to light her way, she followed the sound to its source—away from the house. The sound was coming from the root cellar. Maggie nervously nibbled at her lower lip. She'd promised Quentin that she'd never go near it again, but here she was. She shined the flashlight on the cellar doors. The rod that had once secured it lay on the ground beside the entrance. One of the doors blew open and shut. "That's impossible," Maggie said aloud. _Surely there's no breeze inside_ , she thought. _I don't understand_.

She stooped and slowly drew one of the doors all the way open. She peered into the darkness. From the floor of the cellar, two malevolent eyes shone back at her. She slammed the door shut with a loud bang.

The book she'd been reading had fallen to the floor and startled her awake. _Another dream_ , she thought as she gathered herself and tried to still the shaking that rippled through her. She threw the afghan aside and went to the window. Darkness had settled over the landscape outside. She could see nothing, except the nearly full moon and the approaching headlights of Quentin's car.


	5. Chapter 5

An ominous presence stalks the dark places within the souls of the residents of Collinwood, reawakening forgotten fears and insecurities in some, fueling hubris in others. For one man, a dormant curse has been reignited. The approaching full moon forces a long overdue moment of reckoning for Quentin Collins, one that threatens to destroy the new life he's built.

* * *

The next morning, Maggie woke to a dull pain in her head. Her neck ached when she tried to move it. A near empty bottle of brandy and two snifters with the dregs of their night's consumption still sat on the table in front of them. She extricated herself from her husband's embrace, and pushed herself to sitting. "Quentin?" She gave his leg a gentle shake. "Quentin? It's time to wake up." She shook him a bit more forcefully.

He murmured something she couldn't understand. But in a moment, he opened his eyes, and he too pushed himself to sit upright on the couch. "You're still here?" he said. He fixed her with a gaze that held both a question and desire.

"Where else would I be?" she responded, an edge in her voice.

"I thought that after what I told you last night, you might have packed your bags and returned to the Great House," he said in a tone intended to inspire her pity.

"You should have told me sooner, Quentin," she continued her refrain from the previous night.

"We agreed to leave the past in the past. You said you wanted that too," he accused her.

"I did, but we didn't have to live _here_. We could have taken another house on the estate, or got a place in town," she argued. "How can you stand to be here day after day, living with such dreadful memories?"

"I knew how much you loved this place. I wanted to make you happy," he said. He went on, "And in all honesty, how could I explain it … and what it represents?" He wanted to add, "What I'd done here" but he hadn't the heart to tell her the worst of it—at least, not yet.

"You're not that man—that _thing_ —anymore, Quentin. I truly believe that. I trust you, Quentin," she said, as much for herself as for him. "Now I understand your moods and the darkness that takes you sometimes. I really believe it will bring us closer together." Noting that the sun now fully illuminated the sitting room, she added, "I should get dressed or I'll be late, but we can talk more tonight."

He shook his head miserably. "There's something else I have to tell you—something you have to know before the sun sets."

* * *

 _How?_ Maggie wondered. _How can he go to the mill and behave as though it were any other day? How—knowing that if the curse was reasserting itself, when the full moon rose into the night sky he would transform into a mindless beast—how could he go on?_ She knew that she could not. She had to do something.

* * *

Quentin showered and dressed for the day. He looked rough from a night spent drinking, explaining his past to his trusting wife, and trying to answer her myriad resulting questions. He went to the window and looked out on the farm that Maggie loved so much. His eyes came to rest on the entrance to the root cellar. He needed a plan.

He'd told Maggie that he intended to go the mill as usual, leave early, and return to the farm to wait for Julia. He thought at the mill he might obtain a length of chain to restrain the beast. Then he thought perhaps it would be best to drive to the hardware store in Bangor to buy some chain. Either way, he decided, it might draw suspicion, especially if the beast somehow got free and hurt someone.

No—the best plan was to ask Julia to meet him at the root cellar, administer the sedative there, and then lock him in.

* * *

Maggie skipped having breakfast with Quentin. She had no appetite anyway. She arrived at the Great House earlier than usual. The family would still be in the small dining room having breakfast. She went to the drawing room. Finding it empty, she closed the doors and went to the phone. She dialed a number she now knew from memory. "Hello, Professor Stokes? It's me, Maggie Collins."

"Hello, my dear. I recognized your voice. How are you?"

"I'm okay—thanks. And you?"

"Never better."

"Professor, there's something important I'd like to speak with you about—something I'd rather not discuss over the phone. I'm wondering whether you're free later this morning."

The professor's distinctive voice returned, "Of course, my dear, anything for you. I'll be here all morning. Stop by at your convenience."

Maggie hung up and adjusted her plans for the day. David and Amy would probably be happy about it, she thought. She opened the drawing room doors to find Julia Hoffman in the foyer, putting on her coat—her handbag and medical bag sat on the entryway table.

"Good morning, Julia. Heading over to the Old House?" Maggie asked as she tried to tamp down her anxiety.

Julia offered Maggie a smile, as she buttoned her coat. "Actually, I was called to Windcliff to consult on a case. If I leave now, I can be there in time for morning rounds, and back by mid-afternoon."

"Julia …" Maggie began. Then she reconsidered, and said simply, "I'll see you later."

"Don't worry, Maggie. I'll be back in plenty of time to meet Quentin at the cellar."

Maggie's eyes widened. "At the _cellar_?"

"Yes. He called a few minutes ago to say that the plan had changed and I should meet him there before the sun sets."

"Oh," was Maggie's dejected response. Her husband had turned to someone else, once again leaving her in the dark.

The older woman went to her and patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, Maggie. I've dealt with far more challenging situations than this. After tonight, I'll have the information I need to work on a cure," the doctor told her disingenuously. When Maggie appeared ready to pursue it further, the doctor added, "Well, I really must be going."

* * *

"Do we have to go visit Professor Stokes with you, Maggie?" David whined.

"Do we, Maggie?" Amy joined in, following David's lead as she often did.

"Actually, I thought you two could go to the library on your own this morning—return the books you checked out last week, and select five new ones," Maggie told them, as she pulled her car into a parking space on Collinsport's main street.

David perked up. "On our own?"

"Yes, while I visit Professor Stokes, but …"

David sighed dramatically. "But what?"

"But two of the books have to be non-fiction, and at least one of the fiction books can't be from a series," Maggie said as they arrived at the front steps of the Collinsport Library. "I won't be long—maybe an hour," she continued. "If you finish picking out books before I return, go to the reading room, and begin reading one of your books."

"Yes, Maggie," David said. Whether because Maggie was more authoritative, or because David was maturing, he was more cooperative and less argumentative than when Maggie first became his governess. "We'll see you in an hour. Come on, Amy," the boy said, tugging at the younger girl's sleeve.

Maggie walked from the library to Professor Stokes's home in a matter of minutes. She pressed the bell then shoved her hands in the pockets of her pea-coat to ward off the morning chill. A moment later the professor opened the door and ushered her in. He was wearing a handsome dark grey three-piece suit. The wide, patterned tie was his only concession to modernity.

"Please come in, my dear," he said as he showed her into the cozy sitting room. "Have a seat." He motioned to a small couch. She sat, but he remained standing. "I'd offer you a sherry, but it's far too early in the day for that, but may I offer you a cup of tea instead. I've just made a fresh pot, so it won't take but a moment."

She opened her mouth to decline, but instead said, "Thank you. I'd like that."

When he returned, he placed a tea service on the coffee table in front of her. He poured her a cup of tea, and then one for himself. He eased into an armchair across from her. "So, what brings you here this morning?" he asked.

"Now that I'm here, I hardly know where to begin," she lamented. He waited as she took a sip of tea. She rallied to the task and began, "It's about my husband, Quentin. Well, you know how he came to be here."

"Yes, of course. I could never forget such a singular set of circumstances," he said in response.

"In his own time—in 1897—a gypsy put a curse on him. And before he came to this time—before he threw the I Ching wands—a powerful sorceress removed the curse." Maggie recounted Quentin's history as he had explained it to her. "But now—now, he believes the curse has reemerged or been rekindled somehow. Professor," she said as fear and urgency blended in her eyes, "he told me that when the moon is full, he'd transform into a terrible beast—a wolf that walks like a man. I know it sounds insane …"

"On the contrary, I find it not only credible, but very interesting." He rose, went to the bookshelf, and began searching for a volume. "Please go on."

"You find it credible?" she asked.

"Yes, of course. Don't you?" he returned. "With all that you've seen and know of life in Collinsport, is lycanthropy so hard to believe? Ah, here it is," he said as he removed a volume from the shelf— _Case studies in lycanthropy_. He handed it to her. She opened the cover and flipped through the opening pages. He went on, "Some believe that lycanthropes physically change form—actually becoming a wolf-like creature; others believe that it is a form of mental illness—one that frees its sufferers from the constraints of social norms and mores and allows them to express the animal nature that lives within all of us."

"And what do you believe, Professor Stokes?"

He resumed his seat across from her. "I believe that both exist—with the latter, perhaps, drawing inspiration from the former."

"The moon will be full tonight, Professor," she said in a forlorn tone.

"And what arrangements have you made?" he asked with such practicality that she closed the book and looked up at him.

"He's asked Julia to administer a powerful sedative—and to lock him in the root cellar on our farm."

"I see—a very reasonable approach. Will you excuse me a moment?" he said as he rose again.

She glanced at her watch as she heard him rummaging through drawers, in what she assumed must be his bedroom. When he returned, Maggie was already on her feet. Despondency, so palpable it was almost physical, radiated from her. "I'm afraid I've already taken up too much of your time, Professor," she said.

"Never—think nothing of it," he replied.

"May I borrow the book? I don't have time to read it before the sun sets, but perhaps I can get through a few chapters later."

"Yes, please take it, but …" She noticed he held a small jewlery box in his large hands. "But there is something I'd like you to do for me."

"Of course, if I can—name it."

"I'd like you to wear this." He opened the box and from it he took a silver pendant on a silver chain.

"What is it?" she asked. He held the chain in his hand and the pendant dangled and twisted back and forth.

"It's a pentagram. You must humor me and wear it as long as the moon is full. Do not take it off. It will afford you some protection."

"Protection?" she repeated.

"Yes. Werewolves—lycanthropes—fear silver above all else, and the pentagram holds some special meaning for them. It's said that a pentagram will stop one where it stands."

"Why?"

"Honestly, I don't know, nevertheless, it's more than just folklore. May I?"

Maggie turned her back to him and pulled her long hair up, exposing her neck. The professor put in his monocle in order to see what he was doing. Still, he struggled for a few moments, trying to open the small clasp on the necklace, with large ungainly fingers. At last, he achieved his goal. "There you are," he announced proudly, letting the monocle fall from his eye.

Maggie turned to face him. Her hand went unconsciously to the pendant. "Thank you, Professor Stokes—for everything." She rose to her toes and delivered a small peck on the professor's cheek. The usually unflappable academic felt a flush of embarrassment suffuse him. She offered him a shy smile—her first since learning of her husband's affliction.

Before returning to the library to pick up David and Amy, Maggie went to her car, and put the book in the glove compartment. It was more than she cared to explain to her inquisitive young charges. Her hand went once again to the pentagram pendant. She slipped it inside the collar of her blouse.

Then she went to meet David and Amy at the library with a few minutes to spare.

* * *

All the way back to Collinwood, David and Amy exuded the kind of energy children have when released from routine. Maggie had taken them to the diner for doughnuts and hot chocolate as a special treat following their trip to the library. Now, in the car, they were proudly telling her about their solo efforts to find books in keeping with her instructions. Maggie worked to stay focused on their excited chatter, and enjoy the brief respite from worrying about Quentin and what was to come later when the sun set.

Maggie parked the car on the drive, and the three made the short walk to the Great House. Opening the front door, a surprise awaited them in the foyer.

"Joe!" Amy dropped her books and ran to her cousin. Throwing her arms around his waist, she said, "I knew you'd come. I knew you'd come to see me."

Maggie noticed how stiff Joe looked—almost rigid. His arms hung at his sides. Their eyes met then Joe awkwardly embraced his young cousin. "Of course, I want to see you," he began. Then he added, "Just not right now. Right now, I need to speak to Maggie."

Amy looked crestfallen. "What?" Tears formed in her eyes. "I've been waiting patiently to see you, just like Maggie told me to. Isn't that right, Maggie?" Amy appealed to her governess for confirmation.

"Yes—yes, you have," Maggie said, confused by Joe's behavior.

"I'll come see you some other time," Joe thoughtlessly told the child. "Right now, I need to see Maggie on an adult matter—one that can't wait."

Maggie intervened before any more damage could be done. "Would you two please go to the library and continue reading one of your books?" She was already gathering Amy's books from the foyer floor. Amy gave her a look that conveyed her hurt feelings mixed with bitter envy. "I'll be along shortly," Maggie said to her charges, though her eyes never left Amy's.

Amy took the books from Maggie and practically ran from the foyer as her tears threatened to flow. "She's not going to be any fun today," David whined and then followed her.

"We can speak in the drawing room," Maggie said. "Come in." Once inside, she began, "Really Joe, how could you treat Amy like that? She's been dying to see you. You could have given her five minutes of your time."

"This is important, Maggie," he began. Then he caught himself. "Yeah, yeah—I'm sorry about that. I'll apologize to her next time I see her. But this really is important, Maggie."

"What, Joe? What's so important?"

"Your husband—Quentin …" Joe paused dramatically.

"What about Quentin?" Maggie felt her pulse quicken.

"He threatened me, Maggie," Joe said. He let the words pour out. "He told me he was going to kill me."

Maggie turned away from him. "That's not possible, Joe. Quentin wouldn't …" she began then fell silent.

He was quick to fill the void. "He told me that when the moon was full, he would hunt me down and kill me." Maggie turned back to face him. He went on. "You know something, don't you? Something about what happens when the moon is full. Come on, Maggie. I know you. I can see it in your eyes."

"It doesn't make any sense," Maggie said.

"What doesn't?"

She went on, as though speaking to herself. "Why would he try so hard … if he meant to … it doesn't make any sense."

Joe went to her and took her hands in his.

* * *

 _Maggie Collins, n_ _é_ _e Evans, had always thought of herself as a sensible person. Her circumstances in life dictated that she be practical. Her mother died when she was young. Her father, an artist, drank too much. He'd made terrible choices and, as a result, accumulated debts that limited her future. There was nothing romantic about her life._

 _When she met Victoria Winters, a young woman with a fixation on the past, Maggie mentally remarked on the differences in their temperaments. Vicky, in spite of her difficult circumstances, was a true romantic. Maggie was anything but … then she met Quentin Collins._

 _When the I Ching brought Quentin to 1968, Maggie was there as a witness to it all. She had tacitly agreed to help Quentin adjust to life in a new era—the places and locales were the same as his life in 1897, but everything else had evolved around him. She had been his guide. So it seemed natural one day when the spark between them ignited into something more. She was not romantic, like Vicky—and she would not describe what she had with Quentin as romantic—she would call it passionate._

 _Now she understood the meaning of besotted. She wanted Quentin, and he wanted her—their passion was mutual, and at times, palpable. But in the process, she'd thrown practical concerns aside. In the process, she'd told herself that his past didn't matter—just as he'd accepted her without a full accounting of hers._

 _They had agreed to leave the past in the past. And for the most part, this worked. It was only in those times when his behavior was inexplicably moody and distant—inexplicably coarse—that she allowed the doubts to creep into her consciousness. It was only then that she entertained the fear that she'd married a virtual stranger—a man with an unknown past—and no one left alive to attest to his true character. It was then that she feared that she was like so many other lovers who had deluded themselves into believing what they wanted rather than facing the truth._

 _Then with a touch, or an embrace, or even that look of desire that came to his eyes, he would dispel her doubts, as nothing else could._

* * *

"Maggie, I'm telling you, he _threatened_ me," Joe said, still holding her hands.

She suddenly thought how this might seem, if someone were to walk in and see them. She pulled her hands away and paced away from him.

He went on, "What do you really know about him, Maggie? The guys in town say that he showed up one day and even _he_ didn't know who he was—some kind of amnesia. He spent some time at Windcliff."

"You, of all people, shouldn't judge him for that," Maggie retorted angrily.

"I don't," he adopted a conciliatory tone.

"Besides," she continued in an angry tone, "Tonight when the full moon rises, Quentin will be locked away in our root cellar where he can't hurt anyone. Would he do that if he intended to carry out some threat against you?" she blurted out. She felt a flush of indignation that she was finding difficult to tamp down.

"So, there is something," Joe asked.

"I just told you, Quentin would never intentionally hurt someone," she said with conviction, as she regained her composure. "If he said something to make you think otherwise, then I apologize on his behalf."

"I'm sorry, Maggie. I didn't mean to upset you," Joe said disingenuously. She looked at him through pained eyes. "It's just that all the time that I was at Windcliff, I imagined coming back to you. And now … well, I'm having a difficult time accepting things as they are. I promise, I'll try harder to accept that you're a married woman now—married to someone else," he said with convincing sincerity. "I hope we can be friends—all of us—you, me _and_ Quentin."

* * *

Quentin was pacing the floor of their sitting room when Maggie arrived home late that afternoon. She could see at once that something was wrong. He ran a hand through his unruly hair. He turned when he became aware of her presence. His eyes had the same haunted look they always did as the full moon approached, only intensified.

She went to him. "Quentin, what is it? What's wrong?"

"It's Julia—she's been delayed at Windcliff. She won't be here in time to administer the sedative." His words rushed out in a barrage. "Maggie, you'll have to lock me in the cellar."

"Of course I can do that," she told him.

He went on as though he didn't hear her. "I had hoped the sedative would spare me the pain of the transformation. Maggie—it's too horrible to describe." He buried his face in his hands. His body shook. Maggie wound her arms around him. "I don't want you to see me like that. I'm so afraid that if you do, you'll never look at me the same way again," he whispered.

"No, Quentin— _no_. Whatever happens tonight, I'll still love you—I'll _always_ love you." She took his hands in hers then led him upstairs. There, they spent the hour until sunset trying to forget what was to come.

* * *

After Maggie raised the ladder and secured the door to the root cellar, essentially marooning her husband inside, then she returned to her car and retrieved the book that Professor Stokes had loaned her, from the glove compartment.

She made a pot of tea, and took it and the book on lycanthropy to the sitting room. She curled up on the couch, prepared for a long, anxious night.

Maggie had never noticed how preternaturally quiet it was living on the farm. As she sat reading, she was aware of the creaking and settling noises of the old farmhouse's joints and floorboards. Everything else was quiet and still. She opened the book and began reading it. She was little more than a few pages into the second chapter when she began to find the case studies and accompanying sketches too disturbing for this particular night. She closed the book, and looked out of the window. The full moon had risen into a crystal clear night sky.

That was when she heard it. At first it was an indistinct moan, muffled by distance and the heavy doors of the cellar. Her heart was in anguish as she thought of Quentin all alone in the dark cellar, and of the torturous pain he knew he would endure.

* * *

Joe stood at the entrance to the root cellar on the old Peabody farm. He knew it well, as he and his friends had visited the farm numerous times as kids looking for fun and adventure, and finding the abandoned farm sometimes provided it.

He had watched from the edge of the woods as Maggie accompanied Quentin to the cellar. He turned away from their emotional embraces, but turned back in time to watch Maggie raise the ladder and secure the door with a heavy bar of some sort. Then he watched as she returned to the house. She'd gone upstairs and left a light on there, and another in the kitchen. But he guessed the light in what must be their sitting room represented where she would be. He waited until the sun sank low in the sky, and the lights in the windows of the farmhouse were the only illumination. Then the stars began to sparkle and the moon rose.

He'd pulled the metal bar from the doors and stood listening to the angry snarls from within.

* * *

"Help me!"

Maggie heard it distinctly.

" _Help me_!" The cry shattered the quiet which only moments before enveloped the farm.

 _Was it Quentin? How could it be?_ Maggie was on her feet, pulling on her pea-coat, and grabbing the flashlight. She scanned the farmyard with the flashlight, but there was really no need. She knew it came from the direction of the cellar.

* * *

Joe drew open the doors and let the ladder drop to the cellar floor. He scrambled down it, screaming "help me," as he went.

He was barely halfway down the ladder when Quentin pounced, dragging Joe from the ladder as he alighted it, tossing him to the cellar floor. Joe was surprised to discover how much his muscles had atrophied during his time at Windcliff. He was no match for Quentin, who easily pinned him to the floor, bared his teeth, and viciously attacked his neck. Joe struggled to fend off the attack—pushing back at his attacker, keeping the bared teeth at bay with his forearms and fists.

* * *

The light from Maggie's flashlight illuminated the scene below. "Quentin!" Her husband stopped and looked at her, but didn't free his prey. He responded with a guttural noise that was more beast than man. "Please, Quentin, it's me—Maggie." Her eyes never left him as she climbed half way down the ladder.

"Run, Maggie," Joe screamed, bringing a halt to her efforts. "He'll kill us both."

With madness in his eyes, Quentin turned back to the man cowering beneath him. He drew Joe up off the ground and shook him violently.

Reaching the bottom of the ladder, Maggie screamed, "Quentin! Stop! Please stop!" Holding the flashlight in one hand, she frantically fumbled with the collar of her blouse. In the end, she pulled so hard, the top button popped off, giving her access to the chain underneath. She pulled the silver pentagram out and held it up for Quentin to see.

He dropped Joe roughly to the ground, whelped like a wounded animal, and scurried to the corner of the cellar. He turned back and made an angry, snarling noise.

"Go now, Joe!" Maggie said, as Joe struggled to his feet. Quentin advanced a few steps toward them, only to retreat again at the sight of the pentagram. " _Go!_ " Maggie said again. Joe brushed past her and scrambled up the ladder. Maggie followed, slowly, carefully making her way, all the while holding the pentagram where Quentin could see it.

Once outside they struggled to raise the ladder, as Quentin, no longer deterred, was trying to hold onto one of the lower rungs. They held fast to the thick rope and Joe braced himself to get better leverage. In the end, they secured the ladder, and slammed the doors shut. Joe inserted the rod, effectively locking Quentin in the cellar once again.

Sweat dotted Maggie's face from the exertion. In between the short puffs of breath, she asked, "What are you doing here, Joe? Why did you go down there?"

"I was worried about you, Maggie. I came to check and make sure you were all right. I came through the woods, and when I got here, I could hear noises coming from the cellar. I don't know—I guess I thought you might be down there. I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"He could have killed you, Joe."

"But you see it now, don't you, Maggie? He's _mad_."

The full impact of everything that happened began to set in. Maggie felt tears welling up in her eyes; her legs suddenly felt weak. It was too much to take in.

"You shouldn't have come here, Joe," was all she could manage. "You have to leave— _now_."

"I'm not going to leave you here alone with _him_ —like _that_."

"I'll be fine," she said. Only now did she realize that she was tightly clutching the pentagram in her hand. "I'll be fine as long as I have this. Besides, I won't be alone. Professor Stokes is on his way over. He should be here any minute."

"Maggie…" he began.

But she cut him off. "Please, Joe—please just go." She took a retreating step away from him, her tears still threatening. "I can't bear much more of this," she cried.

"All right, Maggie. If you're sure you'll be all right."

"I am."

"I'll call you later to make sure you're okay," he said.

"All right—sure," she responded to encourage him to leave.

Maggie watched as he made his way back toward the farm's gate, lit only by the now-bright light of the full moon. When he was gone, she went back inside the house and called Professor Stokes.

* * *

Maggie eschewed her stemmed sherry glasses in favor of two whisky tumblers, which she filled with generous portions of amontillado—Professor Stokes's favorite. "I'm sorry to bring you out here so late, Professor," she said as she handed him a glass.

"Think nothing of it, my dear. In fact, I feel quite ungallant. I should have offered to come when we spoke this morning. But I was under the impression that Dr. Hoffman had things well in hand, and I know how she hates it when I interfere with her plans." He raised the glass and took a long, slow, appreciative sip. He sat at one end of Maggie and Quentin's sitting room couch. Maggie had tucked in at the other end.

"I'm afraid our plans went awry," she said in dry understatement. In the time between her call to the professor and the time he arrived at the farm, Maggie had gathered herself—washing her face, brushing her hair, and generally making herself presentable. These simply acts had helped to still the shaking that had overtaken her.

"If you don't mind, I should like to hear all about it. I don't want to pry, but sometimes the retelling of traumatic events actually helps one place them in the proper context—and it was traumatic, wasn't it?" he probed gently.

"Yes, it was. He would have killed us both, had it not been for the pentagram you gave me." Maggie gave Professor Stokes a grateful look. Then she recounted the events that transpired that evening. The professor listened attentively and did not interrupt. When she reached the end of her tale, Maggie said, "There's one thing I've been struggling to make sense of."

"Oh?" The professor raised an eyebrow—his curiosity was piqued. "Do go on."

"When I first reached the cellar and looked in, I saw … well, I know how this is going to sound, but given everything else that happened … his eyes—they glowed—they were red—and unnatural."

"So, your husband did transform in some way then?" Stokes asked.

"That's just it, Professor. It was _Joe_. His eyes were glowing and … and malevolent. It was just for a moment—and perhaps I imagined the whole thing." Maggie paused and sipped deeply from her glass. "Do you think I imagined it? Or that it was a trick of the light?"

"On the contrary, I find it very interesting—illuminating even."

"And how am I going to tell Quentin that his lycanthropy is all in his mind … that he's …" She broke down and let her tears fall. Professor Stokes produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Let's not be hasty, my dear. You must tell me _everything_ ," he said.

"But I just did," she responded as she blotted her eyes, and tried to regain her composure.

"You must go back farther. You must tell me everything you know about Joe Haskell's return to Collinwood."

" _Joe_?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then you believe I really saw something—something unnatural in his eyes?"

"I do. I believe Joe Haskell may be possessed. All that remains to determine is by whom and to exorcise it," Professor Stokes concluded. "Now, tell me everything you know—everything you remember. No detail is unimportant or too small—you must tell me _everything_."


	6. Chapter 6

A new day dawns on the great estate of Collinwood. For Maggie Collins, the night's departure brings welcome relief from the horrors of the full moon. She desperately wants to believe that the morning light will illuminate the night's mysteries, but in her heart she knows that Collinwood will not give up its secrets so easily.

* * *

Maggie had managed only an hour or two of fitful sleep that night. Then she lay in bed waiting anxiously for the sun to vanquish the full moon and release her husband from the curse he believed he was experiencing. When she could stand it no longer, she got out of bed, showered, and dressed for the day. She made every effort to move about quietly, lest she wake the guest who lay dozing on her couch.

Dressed in slacks and a sweater, she pulled on an old pair of driving mocs and a bulky fisherman cardigan, and crept out through the back door. The morning air was brisk and served as an antidote to her restless, wearying night. Arriving at the entrance to the cellar, she paused for a moment. Her heart and throat constricted a bit as she contemplated seeing her husband again. She desperately wanted to tell him that nothing had changed. But how could she? How could she purge from her mind and memory the visage of Quentin—madness in his eyes— _feral madness_?

She swallowed hard, crouched down, and pulled the metal bar from the cellar doors. She drew open one door then the other. With uncharacteristic tentativeness, she called, "Quentin? Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

"Maggie," came his voice from below. "I'm okay. You can lower the ladder now."

Maggie lowered the ladder to the floor of the cellar, but waited anxiously at the entrance, unsure how she'd feel and react when she saw him again. As he emerged, she could see that his hair looked wild, his shirt was dirty and his pants were torn at the knees. In that moment, she set all of her doubts and anxiety aside, went to him, and drew him into a warm embrace.

"I ache all over," he whispered in a hoarse voice.

"I'm not surprised," she responded. "Let's get inside. You should get cleaned up and get some rest if you can." With her arm around his waist, and his around her shoulder, she led him to the rear entrance of the farmhouse. Once there, she told him, "Why don't you go upstairs? I'll make us some coffee."

Then Maggie returned to their front sitting room. She was tempted to immediately usher the professor out, so that she could be alone with Quentin, but that would have been ungracious to someone who deserved better.

She found Professor Stokes already on his feet. He must have had a small comb in his pocket, because his hair was neatly combed. And while he looked a little rumpled and a bit tired, he seemed remarkably like his usual self. He'd folded the afghan she'd given him, and draped it over the arm of the couch.

"I hope you'll stay for a cup of coffee, Professor Stokes. I'm about to put the percolator on."

"I have a great deal of research to do today, my dear, but I can think of no better way to get started," he replied.

"Thank you again for your help last night. I don't think I could have faced in on my own," Maggie said.

"You're not on your own, my dear. I'll do everything I can to help—and I'm sure Julia—Dr. Hoffman—will as well, once she understands the situation."

"The coffee will be ready in a few minutes," Maggie told him as she headed to the kitchen.

Professor Stokes paced the length of the sitting room, hands clasped behind his back.

* * *

"Stokes? What are you doing here so early?" Quentin stood on the bottom step of the staircase that led to the farmhouse's snug second floor. His hair was tussled and damp, and he wore a heavy robe over his pajama pants. He was clearly not expecting to find anyone in his sitting room. Then he noticed the state of the usually immaculate man, and the afghan on the couch. "Were you here all night?"

"I was," the professor began. "But I can assure you," he continued, "that my feelings for your wife are strictly avuncular."

Quentin threw back his head and roared with laughter. "I've no doubt, Professor—just as I've no doubt she thinks of you in similar terms."

"Is everything all right in here?" Maggie appeared in the doorway, carrying the coffee service.

"Yes."

"Perfectly so."

The two men responded at the same time, though not in unison.

Maggie smiled and set about serving coffee. They drank their coffee in near silence. When he drained his cup, the professor rose and prepared to take his leave. "Well," he said, "I must be going." Maggie rose too and walked him to the door. "I'll call you later and report on the findings of my research," Professor Stokes told her, before returning to his car and taking his leave.

* * *

Timothy Eliot Stokes was a man of many interests at the intersection of art, anthropology, history, and folklore. Over time his interests coalesced around all things occult. He began as a skeptic—questioning the beliefs and practices he encountered in his studies. But over time, he was not only won over to a belief in the inexplicable—in the supernatural and in phenomena both natural and unnatural—he applied his studies, becoming a practitioner of sorts. He knew that through his research he'd found the means to vanquish unsettled souls, but it was performing his first exorcism that confirmed it.

Since then, an increasing share of his time and energy was devoted to the study of the occult. In Collinsport, he'd found the perfect locale for his pursuits, for the small town never wanted for unusual, unexplained phenomena. His colleagues sometimes mocked him for both his unorthodox research interests, and for the quaint village lifestyle he'd adopted in service of those pursuits. He didn't care. He enjoyed, even reveled in, his status as the iconoclastic academic. And too, it was his family's legacy.

On this day, he should have been exhausted after a night spent dozing on a couch rather than tucked into his own comfortable bed. Instead, he found himself energized. He'd come home, bathed and dressed, and immediately launched into the research he knew would hold the answers he sought. This time it was more than an academic pursuit. This time he had a personal stake in the outcome. He'd been genuine in telling Quentin Collins of his avuncular feelings for the younger man's wife, for Stokes had no family to speak of. In his growing friendship with Maggie Collins, who was similarly situated prior to her marriage, he'd found a kind of bond—a connection that fueled his protective nature. He didn't want to disappoint her.

He made a fresh pot of coffee and some toast. Over his breakfast, he perused a small stack of source materials on various types of spiritual possession that he'd selected from his extensive collection of books and monographs on the occult. After scanning the index of the third such volume, he slammed it shut in frustration. It was a needle in a haystack approach—it would never do.

He needed a research plan—a systematic approach to the problem. He opened a small notebook. _Subject—Joe Haskell_ , he wrote.

 _When did the possession (if it was possession) occur?_ The young man had, until recently, been a patient at Windcliff Sanitarium.

 _Had the possession taken place before he was sent to the sanitarium? If so, why were no manifestations of it evident during his time there?_ Though he was not one to entertain local gossip, Professor Stokes had heard of Joe Haskell's case. All of Collinsport buzzed with the news of the upstanding local man's descent into madness, culminating in being committed at the sanitarium.

 _No_ , Stokes thought. _It was unlikely that the possession led him to the sanitarium—though it was true that there were such cases—cases where spiritual possession could be mistaken for mental illness. But in Joe's case—the manifestations of possession were more cunning, more calculating than the mere ravings of an unsettled soul—the way he'd attempted to manipulate Maggie since his return, suggested that the possession had recently taken place._

He must learn more about the circumstances of Joe's release from Windcliff. He could hardly go there himself and interview the doctors and staff. With enough time, he might craft a pretext for doing so, but such subterfuge required time and patience to gain trust and produce the desired results. He did not have time— _Maggie_ did not have time. He must have quicker results. He must enlist Julia Hoffman to assist him. She would have immediate access where he did not; she would have instant credibility that he would not. He took his notebook, went to the phone, and dialed the house phone at the Great House on the Collinwood estate.

* * *

Julia Hoffman had a very distinctive way of holding a telephone handset—one hand on the handle, the other cradling the mouthpiece. Perhaps it came from years of secretive conversations and her desire to obscure the movement of the lips as well as the words she spoke. Professor Stokes noticed this anew as he waited at her elbow. Julia turned and shot him a look. He fell back a few feet in response.

"I see," she said into the mouthpiece. "Go on." A long pause followed.

"I see," she said again. "And where is it now?" Julia listened intently to the response. "I'm sorry to take up so much of your time," she said. "One last question—do you remember the name on the box?" Another pause on Julia's end ensued. "Would you? Thank you. I'll be at this number for the next 30 minutes …" Then she recited the Collinwood house-phone number and hung up.

Julia recapped the side of the conversation to which Professor Stokes was not privy. "She's going to find out the name on the box of objects d' arte that Elizabeth donated, and call me back," she concluded. She turned and found Stokes uncomfortably close again.

"Thank you, Julia. Your efforts produced results far quicker than I could. I am grateful."

She took a step away from him, and fixed him with resolute eyes. "Eliot, are you quite sure about this? I feel that you are seeing supernatural influences where none exist. Isn't it possible that Quentin's strange behavior is just a desperate act of jealousy by a man afraid of losing his wife?"

A smile came to Stokes's eyes. "My dear Julia, I should think Quentin Collin's behavior better suited to having the exact opposite effect on his wife."

"People's reactions and behavior are not always logical," she said stubbornly.

"Perhaps not," he conceded, "but I trust Maggie."

"Yes," she drew out the word foreshadowing her skepticism to follow. "Perhaps your _fondness_ for Maggie has colored your judgment."

"I am indeed fond of Maggie, but that fondness has not colored my judgment. On the contrary, because I am fond of her, I can see how genuinely distraught she is, and …"

Before he could finish his spirited defense of his motives, the house-phone rang. Julia answered it at once.

"Dr. Hoffman here … um hm … Thank you, Miss Pritchett. Joe? No, he's doing fine, adjusting really well. Yes, I was just completing some case notes, and realized a few details were missing. Just striving to be thorough," Julia laughed. "Thank you again." She hung up.

Professor Stokes already had his notebook in hand. "Well?"

"Evan Hanley. Does that name mean anything to you?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No, but a visit to the Collinsport Library may help in that regard. It seems I have a great deal of research to do before tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" she asked. "What happens then?"

"I go to visit Mr. Haskell, and with luck, get a closer look at the puzzle box."

"Eliot," she began in a concerned voice, "I hope you know what you're doing."

"So do I, Julia," he returned ominously, "so do I."

* * *

It was early evening of the following day when Professor Stokes finally felt prepared to meet Joe Haskell. His trip to the Collinsport Library produced little of interest regarding Evan Hanley, Esquire. Earlier in the day, he had called Elizabeth Stoddard to learn what he could about the origins of the box of items she had donated to the sanitarium, but this too proved unhelpful. Finally, he had poured over monographs in search of phenomena similar to those suggested by the thin body of evidence with which he had to work.

 _Perhaps Julia is right after all_ , he thought in frustration, but his quest for answers had led to a new set of questions and they must be answered before he abandoned the point altogether.

The difficulty of being a man of his status—and stature—was that it was impossible to blend in and make discrete inquiries. He could hardly stop by the Blue Whale and solicit information about Joe Haskell. Instead, he had to rely on the daily patterns and rituals of Collinsport cannery and mill workers to inform the timing of his visit.

He arrived at the caretaker's cottage on the great estate shortly after 6:30 in the evening. He was gratified to see lights on inside, signaling its resident was at home. He knocked and waited.

A moment later the door opened, and Joe Haskell stood in the doorway backlit from the light within.

"Mr. Haskell? I do hope you remember me—Professor Timothy Eliot Stokes," the professor began cordially, extending his hand.

* * *

 _Timothy Eliot Stokes had always been exceptional. As a young man, he double majored in art history and anthropology. Later, when he decided to pursue a career as an academic, his graduate studies took him around the world. It was during these travels that he first encountered manifestations of the occult._

 _He found so many artifacts and works of art held rich meaning for the local populace—some held dark meanings, and he found these all the more intriguing as a result. Early in his career, his mentors steered him away from what they described as "fringe", even "crackpot" pursuits, but Stokes never completely set them aside. Instead, he dabbled quietly and bided his time until he was established in his career—and no one could influence the direction of his research._

 _In time, he published works about the true meaning of the artifacts. His colleagues believed him to be an expert folklorist—never suspecting that their colleague could perform an exorcism when called upon to do so, as well as write expertly about them. In a sense, he led a double life and it served him well._

 _Then he'd come to Collinsport. Here, the estate of Collinwood and its inhabitants, and even the local town were artifacts—ones that held special meaning for him. He had traced his lineage back to an indentured servant, Ben Stokes, who served on the Collinwood estate. This knowledge brought him back to Collinsport, but two things kept him there. The estate was fertile ground for studying the occult. Something had unleashed upon the estate's unsuspecting residents, unnatural forces that lived on throughout the passage of time._

 _And too, it was in Collinsport that he first came to admit the loneliness of his existence and his desire to belong somewhere. And what better place could there be than his ancestral home, such as it was. While the Collins family provided ample opportunities to be of service with his knowledge of the occult, it was his relationship with his intellectual sparring partner, Julia Hoffman, he found most satisfying._

 _Of late there was also his growing affection for Maggie Collins, who like he, had no family to speak of. She had married into the Collins family, but he thought, as only a Stokes could, that the Collinses would always put themselves first. But now Maggie had him to look out for her, to protect her. He was more than up to the task—or so he believed._

* * *

"Please come in," Joe smiled and drew open the door to the cottage.

"I'm sorry to call on you unannounced," the professor said.

"Not at all." Joe assumed the role of gracious host. "May I offer you a drink?"

" _No_ , thank you," the professor demurred with more emphasis than he'd intended.

Joe poured himself two fingers of bourbon in a tumbler. Turning back to the professor, he asked, "So, have you come about Maggie?"

" _Maggie_?" Stokes visibly registered his surprise. Then recovering, he asked, "No. What makes you think so?"

"She mentioned you the other night, and frankly, I can't imagine any other reason for your visit."

"Ah, I see." The professor nodded and continued, "I've come on a wholly unrelated matter."

"Go on," Joe prompted, growing impatient with the professor's deliberate manner.

"I understand that you may be in possession of a certain artifact—one that I should very much like to include in a monograph which I'm currently researching. It's a beautifully handcrafted puzzle box."

"And what makes you think I have it?"

The professor smiled and continued in his deep, sonorous voice, "The box once belonged to a man named, Evan Hanley."

"I don't know anyone by that name," Joe spat in response.

"Perhaps not, but I traced the box as far as the Windcliff Sanitarium. Miss Pritchett says she believes you took the box with you when you left."

"Well, she shouldn't have revealed that—that's not very professional, is it?" Joe's cool exterior was giving way.

Professor Stokes pressed the point. "Perhaps not. Nevertheless, if you have the box, I'd very much like to see it."

Joe laughed a sardonic laugh. "It sounds like something I saw in a souvenir shop in Boston once."

"I can assure you, it's no souvenir," the professor said portentously.

"Well, I may have brought it back with me," Joe said then downed the bourbon in a single gulp. "But if I did, I don't know where it is now."

"I don't suppose I could prevail upon you to look for it?" the professor asked. "I should very much like to see it."

"Not tonight," Joe said. For the first time since his return, he felt flustered and out of control. "In fact, I just remembered that I have something to do this evening. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Of course. My apologies for taking up so much of your time. If you do come across the box, I hope you'll give me a call," the professor said as he removed a leather card case from his vest pocket, and gave the younger man his card.

Joe opened the cottage door, and showed the professor out.

* * *

Outside the cottage door, Professor Stokes allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. It was clear from the young man's reaction that the box held special significance. All that remained was to procure the box itself. He must tell Julia what he learned, at once.

* * *

Maggie was enjoying what passed for a normal day. For the first time in two nights the moon was waning. The full moon was behind them.

The previous night, Julia had come to the farm and administered a sedative to Quentin. Maggie had locked him in the cellar. Then the two women stayed up into the wee hours playing gin and drinking sherry.

When Maggie released her husband from the cellar, he vowed to make the ensuing days good ones—free from anxiety about the curse. He would go to the mill—she to the Great House. Later they would drive down the coast to a neighboring town for dinner. All day, Maggie focused on the evening ahead—on going out with her husband, just like any other young couple.

She left the Great House immediately after David and Amy's final lesson. At home, she indulged in the luxury of a bubble bath, and felt something that could be mistaken for happiness, but was in fact, relief. She took care with her toilette—putting on her make-up, arranging her hair, and finally dabbing cologne in just the right places. Then she stood looking in the closet, flipping through dresses to choose something suitable.

Every time the image of her husband as he was the past two evenings, or the thought of Joe's malevolent eyes threatened her temporary contentment, she pushed it aside by picturing the man she'd fallen in love with—haunted to be sure, but funny, charming, and disarmingly handsome.

She selected a belted knit dress that her husband was sure to like. She was just putting on the earrings that matched it when the phone rang. It was Quentin. He was delayed at the mill. He apologized for the change of plans—could she meet him at the Great House? Maggie hung up the phone, and let her momentary irritation give way to a smile—at least it was an ordinary change in plans—something that could happen to anyone—it was _normal_.

* * *

The old man was trouble. He'd interfered with Joe's plans for Maggie—and now this. _He must be stopped_ , Joe thought. For the first time since being released from the prison constructed by his own mind—by his own weaknesses—he felt vulnerable, threatened.

 _The box is safe_ , he told himself, _but for how long_?

He acted without calculation. The professor could not have gotten far. He would follow him—intercept him. _And then what_? he wondered, even as he exited the cottage in pursuit of the professor. Strike a bargain with him? Threaten him? He had no plan—he was operating on pure emotion.

He set off down the path that led away from the cottage. Before long he'd reached the spot where the path branched into two—one led back to the main Collinsport road, the other to the Great House. Even in the growing darkness, he could see Professor Stokes making his way toward the Great House. Joe moved to intercept him. His eyes scanned the woods as he went for something he could use. Then he saw a club-sized tree branch lying on the side of the path. He picked it up, and continued his pursuit, leaving the main path to snake through the trees as he had done so often as a boy.

Initially, the old man moved as though he was unaware of Joe's presence in the woods. But then the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves caused the professor to turn back and call out, "Is anyone there?" Then he continued with a bit more alacrity. By then, it was too late.

Joe emerged from between the trees, swung the branch, and landed a blow squarely on the back of the professor's head. The older man staggered and fell to his hands and knees, stunned by the blow, suddenly insensible of everything around him.

Eyes aglow, Joe dropped the club, and looked around for something larger and heavier to finish the job. He saw a rock a few steps into the woods. He retrieved and lifted it over his head with both hands.

"Hello?" A woman's voice called out.

He heard footsteps approaching down the path. It was Maggie—he recognized her voice instantly.

"Hello?" She called out again. "Is someone there?"

The professor groaned loudly—pain breaking through the fog of his brain.

Joe felt cornered—trapped between his feelings for Maggie, and his desire to eliminate the threat on the ground in front of him. There was nothing for it, except to drop the rock and flee back into the woods. The professor would have to wait for another time.

* * *

Maggie quickened her pace down the path toward the noise—someone in pain, probably hurt. For a brief, ungracious moment, she resented the intrusion into what was intended to be a break from the Collinwood curse and all of its attendant misery—but someone might be injured and in need of help.

She rounded the bend where the path to the farm joined the main path that led to the Great House. A few steps on she saw him. The usually imposing figure of Professor Stokes looked diminished, on his hands and knees.

Maggie ran to him, as quickly as she could in block-heel pumps. She stooped down beside him. "What happened? Are you all right?" She threaded her arm through his and began to help him to his feet.

"I'm not sure," the professor said in a daze. Once on his feet, the pain at the back of his head became manifest.

"Can you make it back to the house?" she asked, "Or should I go get help?"

"Don't trouble yourself, my dear. I'll be all right in a moment." His hand went to the source of the pain. He touched it and winced in response.

Maggie gently moved his hand aside and examined the knot forming on the back of his head. "Let's get you to the Great House and put some ice on this," she said.

The Great House was unusually quiet and dark when they arrived. Then Maggie remembered that all of its residents had plans to be elsewhere—Roger had taken David and Amy to dinner and a movie, Elizabeth was dining in town with a fellow hospital board member, Mrs. Johnson and her son were in Bangor for the evening, and Carolyn was, as often was the case, with Tony. That left only Julia, who Maggie desperately hoped was at home.

Maggie led the professor into the drawing room and settled him on the couch next to the fireplace. "I'll get some ice," she said heading to the doors. As she entered the foyer, she saw Julia emerge from the direction of the library.

"Maggie, I thought I heard someone else in the house," the doctor began. "What are you doing here?"

Ignoring her question, Maggie said, "Julia—thank goodness you're here." She continued with urgency, "It's Professor Stokes. He's hurt. He's in the drawing room." Then remembering her first aid training, she continued calmly. "I'm going to get some ice, but would you please see to him?"

"Eliot? What happened?" Julia asked as she entered the drawing room.

Maggie did not stick around to hear his response. Instead she continued on to the kitchen. By the time she returned, Julia had retrieved her medical bag, and was shining a penlight into the professor's eyes. Maggie sat beside him on the couch. She'd wrapped several ice cubes in a clean kitchen towel. She applied it to the swelling on the back of Stokes's head.

"How is he, Julia?" Maggie asked in a worried voice.

"Well, he doesn't seem to have a concussion," Julia began. Addressing the professor, she added, "I'll need to keep you under observation though, just in case."

"At last, my hard-headedness pays dividends," the professor quipped.

"Really, Eliot," Julia huffed. "I can't believe you confronted Joe."

"Julia, I did _not_ confront him. My interest in the box, combined with my friendship with Maggie, must have tipped my hand—a mistake I'll not repeat."

"I can't believe Joe would do such a thing," Maggie said sadly.

"Not Joe, Maggie, but whatever force has taken hold of him. You must believe that," the professor returned.

Maggie removed the ice and examined the patient. "It looks a bit better," she said.

"Thank you, Maggie. I'm feeling much better." He offered her a wan smile. "I've been thinking."

"Oh?" Julia interjected with a raised eyebrow.

The professor continued, "Mr. Haskell is unlikely to let me or anyone else examine the box. But there is someone else who might know its secret."

"Who?" Julia asked.

"The box's original owner, Evan Hanley."

"Evan Hanley?" Maggie asked.

"Yes. It seems that Mr. Hanley was once the Collins family attorney."

"But I've never heard of him," Maggie said, "and I've known the family for years."

"He died long before you were born," the professor told her.

"Then how …" Julia began.

"I propose we hold a séance—tonight—immediately," he said.

"Eliot, be reasonable," Julia said in a testy tone.

"Do you have a better idea, Julia?" he responded.

"No, but …" The doctor was clearly frustrated.

" _Do you have a better idea_ , Julia?" the professor challenged her again as he often did. Then he turned to Maggie, "You've been quiet, my dear. I need your agreement—and participation, as well."

Maggie chewed at her lower lip in a nervous gesture. "A séance …" she said, thinking aloud. Quentin on the night of the full moon was etched in her memory. _I can't go through that again_ , she thought. "If there's any chance we could learn something to help Quentin … and Joe, I think we should try it."

The professor turned to the doctor, "Julia?" he asked.

"Very well," she agreed, though clearly unhappily.

The professor assembled chairs at the small drawing room table. Maggie brought candles from the mantle and lit them then she and Julia extinguished all of the other lights in the room, and joined Stokes at the table.

"We must join hands to form a circle, like this," the professor said as he demonstrated touching fingertip-to-fingertip, hands spread flat on the table. Maggie and Julia followed suit, placing their hands on the tabletop—completing the circle.

Before the professor could begin the séance, the drawing room door opened suddenly, causing the three to gasp. Quentin stood in the doorway. "What's going on here?" he asked.

Maggie withdrew her hands like a guilty child. She stood. "Quentin!" She'd been so caught up in everything going on, she hadn't noticed it was well past the time Quentin had said he would meet her.

"I'm sorry I'm late, but I see you've found something to occupy your time," Quentin told his wife in a rough tone.

Before she could respond, Professor Stokes said, "We're attempting a séance."

"Oh? And which unsettled soul are you attempting to contact?" Quentin asked.

"One Evan Hanley," the professor answered.

" _Evan?_ "

"Of course, you must have known him," the professor said.

"Evan was a good friend," Quentin said wistfully. "He would approve of holding a séance to reach him. He dabbled in the dark arts himself—introduced me to it as well." Then coming back to the present, he asked, "What's your interest in Evan?"

"I'm interested in a particular artifact that once belonged to him. One that might help with the curse that afflicts you."

"He did have an extensive collection of unusual pieces from his travels," Quentin observed. "But if he had such a thing, he would have used it to help me. I feel certain of that."

"Perhaps he was unaware of all of its properties," Stokes said disingenuously.

"Perhaps," Quentin murmured, casting his mind back to his friend.

"It might help if you were to join us. He might appear willingly and more readily to someone he knows and trusts," Professor Stokes said, gesturing to an adjacent, empty chair.

Quentin sighed. His eyes met Maggie's. Their quest for a normal day now ruined. "Late supper afterward?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Maggie nodded and resumed her seat. Quentin pulled the chair to the table, and took a seat between Julia and Maggie. He took Maggie's hand and brought it to his lips. Then he placed it on the table and spread his palms flat, fingertips touching hers on one side, and Julia's on the other. The séance began.

* * *

" _Spirits from the dark, hear us. Spirits from the dark, join our circle_ ," Professor Stokes intoned. A cool breeze blew through the room; the candles sputtered in response. "The spirits are among us. Do not break the circle." He continued, " _Spirits from beyond, join our circle. There is one among you we seek …"_

" _No!_ " Maggie cried out.

"Maggie?" Quentin turned to his wife in concern.

"Do not break the circle!" Stokes said with force. "A spirit speaks through her now. We must hear it."

Quentin shot the professor an aggressive look, but before he could act on it, his wife continued, "You must turn back. There is nothing but _danger_ for you here! _Turn back!_ "

Then the candles blew out and Maggie cried out in the darkness, " _No!_ "


	7. Chapter 7

At the Great House at Collinwood, four individuals have come together to hold a séance. Stymied in his attempts to learn about a mysterious artifact, Professor Stokes has attempted to contact its original owner, Evan Hanley, a man familiar to the residents of the great estate in 1897—including Quentin Collins. But it is Quentin's wife, Maggie Collins, who has been visited by a spirit, one whose message and intent is as yet unknown.

* * *

Maggie felt as if she were floating. Everything around her seemed far away. She was transported back to the cove on a sunny afternoon—Pop painting a seascape, she reading the latest teen magazine she'd picked up at the newsstand in the drugstore. She knew it was a dream, but it was the best kind of dream, and the only time she'd ever see Pop again.

Then her eyes fluttered open and the dream abruptly ended. Reality set in. She was back at Collinwood—in the Great House drawing room.

Her hand went to her head. "What happened?" She tried to sit up.

"You mustn't try to get up," a familiar voice told her. "Just stay where you are and rest."

"Roger?" she asked. She tried to remember. No—she was certain of it—Roger had not been there when … when …

"It's me, Kitty. It's me—Edward."

The man on one knee beside the couch looked remarkably like Roger Collins, but his clothes and thin moustache were so old fashioned.

Maggie struggled to sit up. The man beside her said, "You should rest, Kitty. But if you insist on sitting up, let me help you." He retrieved a cushion and propped it behind her then resumed his place beside her.

"Roger?" she said, her mind still in a daze. She was still in the drawing room of the Great House. A fire blazed in the fireplace. She took in the room with her eyes. It was the same but _different_. The furnishings were different.

"It's me, Kitty— _Edward_ —Edward Collins," he repeated. "I'm afraid you must have hit your head. I'll send for the doctor, at once."

"Edward?" Maggie said tentatively.

"Oh, Kitty," Edward said, taking her hand. "I was so worried about you. We expected you this morning. And when your trunks arrived ahead of you … well, I was so worried that something terrible befell you. What happened, Kitty?"

"I'm … I'm not sure," Maggie said, still uncertain of her surroundings.

"Of course, you must rest. Later … tomorrow, you can tell me how you came to be on the drawing room floor … and dressed so strangely."

Maggie looked down at herself. She was still wearing the belted knit dress—the one she knew Quentin would like on her. An old fashioned coverlet was draped over her legs.

"Let me help you upstairs to your room," he said solicitously. "Perhaps it would be best if you cover yourself with this," he said indicating the coverlet, "until we reach your room. Then I'll call the maid to help you find something suitable in your trunks."

In a moment of panic, she said, " _No!_ "

"What's wrong, Kitty? Surely, you'll need someone to assist you."

"Yes, I suppose. But I need to rest. Right now, I need to rest."

"Of course, how insensitive of me—you'll want to keep to your room this evening. Still, I'll send for the doctor and have some broth delivered to your room."

"Thank you, _Edward_ ," Maggie said, working to remember that he said his name was Edward, not Roger. "I'd appreciate the broth tonight, but you needn't call the doctor until morning."

"Are you sure, Kitty?" he asked, concern etched on his features.

"I am. I feel stronger now, and things are coming into focus."

Maggie rose and stood on tentative legs, but in a moment she realized that there was nothing amiss physically—only she seemed trapped in one of her vivid dreams. She wrapped the coverlet around her. Then Edward took her by the elbow and led her through the familiar foyer and up the stairs to "Kitty's" room.

* * *

Edward had ensconced "Kitty" in a guest room in the main part of the Great House. "Here we are," he said as he opened the door. "It's our finest guest room, and I'm just down the hall, should you need me. The basin is there, should you like to wash up, and the pitcher is full."

"Thank you, _Edward_. Please don't bother about the broth. I suddenly feel so tired. I think I'll just retire now, if you don't mind," Maggie said.

"Of course. Shall I send someone to help you?" he asked.

"No, thank you. I'm sure I can manage," she said, and somewhat ungraciously turned toward the door, indicating it was time for him to leave.

"Very well, Kitty," he said taking her hand in his. Raising it to his lips, he added, "Goodnight, Kitty. I hope you'll feel better in the morning." Then he was gone.

* * *

There were two trunks—one on either side of the wardrobe. An old-fashioned travel case stood on one end of the vanity. She caught sight of herself in the vanity's mirror. She looked the same. Her hair was slightly mussed and her lipstick had worn away. Still, she looked like herself, yet "Edward" kept referring to her as "Kitty."

Maggie went to the travel case and opened it. Inside, an embroidered label sewn into the lid read "Katherine Soames, Lady Hampshire," hence "Kitty." She looked through the case. On a tray on top were Kitty's comb and brush, and small bottle of perfume; lifting off the tray revealed ornate jewelry, and old-fashioned hair clips and combs. She closed the case and turned to the trunks. She sighed.

Maggie had told "Edward" that she was suddenly tired to get rid of him, but now she genuinely felt fatigue overtaking her. She kicked off her shoes, and took off her stockings. Then she climbed into bed in her dress and closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered, before the dream began, was the séance. She knew how it would be—she would wake with a start as she always did and find Quentin in bed beside her, in their cozy bedroom … it was her final thought as she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Maggie woke as sunlight flooded into the room. A woman, clad in an old-fashioned black and white uniform, had just pulled open the curtains, and stood with her back to Maggie looking out of the window. Maggie sat up with a start. She was still in the guest room at the Great House. "Oh no," she said aloud. The woman turned back to face her. "Who are you?" Maggie asked in an unintentionally demanding tone.

"I'm Mrs. Dunn, the housekeeper. I'm sorry to wake you, ma'am, but Mr. Collins thought you'd be wanting your coffee by now." As Mrs. Dunn stepped further into the room, Maggie could see that she bore a slight resemblance to Mrs. Johnson, though perhaps it was just her crusty demeanor and expression. Maggie sat up. Mrs. Dunn continued, "Mr. Collins asked me to open your trunks. I've taken the liberty of hanging your black day dress for today. I presumed you'd still be in mourning garb—what with your husband so recently deceased," the housekeeper added pointedly.

"Thank you, Mrs. J … Dunn," Maggie said, recollecting the housekeeper's name.

Maggie stayed in bed watching the housekeeper remove dresses from one of the trunks and hang them in the wardrobe. She felt disconsolate. When she went to bed the previous night, she'd been certain that she'd wake and find herself restored to the Collinwood she knew. Instead, she was here. _Something happened during the séance_ , she thought. _Something that brought me here_.

She tried to put the few pieces together in her mind. At the séance, they had been trying to reach Evan Hanley, a contemporary of Quentin—and Edward was Quentin's brother—so it stood to reason that she had somehow been transported to the 1890's. Everyone seemed to think she was this Kitty Soames—Lady Hampshire. She needed more information—she needed to know more about Kitty Soames, and what she was doing at Collinwood. And more importantly why she was brought to this time—and how she could get back to her own.

"I'll send our maid up to finish unpacking your trunks, and help you dress, if you like," the housekeeper was saying.

"Thank you. That would be most helpful." As the older woman prepared to leave, Maggie asked, "Did anything else arrive for me?" _There must be something else—something that will help me learn more about Kitty Soames_ , she thought.

"Oh, yes—a small document case arrived as well. Mr. Collins put it in the library. You'll find it— _and him_ —there, when you're ready," the housekeeper told her in an oddly judgmental tone.

* * *

When the maid arrived—a pale, unassuming girl named Elsie—Maggie had a bath drawn in the small adjoining dressing room. She sat soaking and thinking. Had it only been a day since she was at home, enjoying a bubble bath, and looking forward to an evening out? There must be a way to return to her own time—to her own Collinwood.

The water was soon tepid, and with no faucet to warm it, Maggie got out of the tub. She put on the dressing gown that Elsie had laid out for her, and rejoined the maid in the bedroom. Elsie was slowly and meticulously unpacking Kitty's trunks. Maggie sat down at the vanity, and began brushing her hair. She knew she would have to go downstairs soon, but she needed to get her bearings first.

"Elsie?" Maggie began.

"Yes ma'am?" the girl replied, stopping her unpacking and giving Maggie her full attention.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your work, but something's troubling me," Maggie said.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Have I done something to upset Mrs. Dunn?" Maggie asked the girl.

Elsie colored and turned back to the trunk. "No ma'am," she said.

"Ah, but I can see from your reaction that I have. Please tell me. How can I fix it if I don't know what I've done?"

Elsie turned to her and began, "Well, it's just that she thinks it was inconsiderate of you to arrive so late and not send word that you were delayed. Mr. Collins was worried sick, and …"

"And?" Maggie prompted.

"And she said it was too soon for you to be visiting, what with your husband's recent …" Elsie colored deeply and returned to hanging Kitty's dresses.

"My husband's death," Maggie finished for her.

"Yes, ma'am," the girl said. "But I think it's natural that you'd want to come back to Maine after what happened," Elsie volunteered with seemingly uncharacteristic boldness.

"Yes," Maggie murmured. By now her hair was well brushed, but she had no idea what to do with it. She took two of the more simple hair combs out of the travel case and looked at them.

Elsie stepped behind her. "Allow me to help, ma'am." Elsie twisted Maggie's hair into a simple chignon and expertly applied the combs to hold it in place.

"Thank you, Elsie. Would you please lay out my clothes for the day?" Maggie watched as Elsie selected undergarments and removed the already hung black dress from the wardrobe door, and laid them on the bed. When she was done, Maggie said, "Perhaps you can finish unpacking the trunks later. I would like my privacy to get dressed." As the girl turned to leave, it suddenly occurred to Maggie to ask, "Oh, and would you please bring me today's newspaper?"

" _Newspaper_ , ma'am?"

From the girl's reaction, Maggie realized that her request was out of the ordinary. "Yes, if Mr. Collins is finished with it."

"Yes ma'am."

"Oh, and Elsie, if we're to be friends, I hope you'll call me Lady Kitty."

"Yes ma'am—I mean Lady Kitty." Then the girl left, leaving Maggie to navigate the array of garments laid out for her.

* * *

By the time Maggie felt ready to face the day ahead, it was nearly midday. The Collinsport Star had confirmed that the year was 1897. It was the very year that Quentin had thrown the I Ching wands and been led to 1968—and to her. As Maggie dressed, she decided to approach it like a school play—it was a costume drama, and her role was Lady Kitty. She must think like Lady Kitty— _act_ like Lady Kitty. And anything she didn't know, any missteps she might make, she would attribute to the bump on her head—to some form of temporary amnesia—until she could find the key that would take her home.

As she alighted the stairs, she heard voices through the open drawing room doors. One was definitely Edward. She peeked into the drawing room. The instant he saw her, Edward made a beeline to her. "Kitty," he began, taking her elbow. "You should have sent for me. I would have escorted you downstairs."

"Please don't fuss, Edward. I'm fine," she told him, patting his hand.

"I'll be the judge of that," the other man said. "Dr. Woodard, at your service, Lady Hampshire."

He bore more than a passing resemblance to the doctor who practiced medicine in Collinsport in 1969. "Of course," Maggie said warmly, extending her hand.

Dr. Woodard turned to Edward. "Would you please give me a few minutes alone with Lady Hampshire?"

Edward's face flushed. "Of course. Where are my manners?" Then he turned to Maggie, "Kitty, please join me in the library afterward."

"Yes, Edward," Maggie replied primly. When he was gone, Maggie set about describing her "symptoms" to the doctor, who assured her that all would be well with time and rest. Then he pointed out where she would find the library and took his leave.

* * *

Maggie went directly to the library. She was desperate to get a look at the contents of the document case—and ideally an hour or two _alone_ to peruse them. Instead she found the ever-solicitous Edward close at hand.

She sat at the desk and opened the case. On top was a newspaper clipping; the headline read, "Gerald Soames, Lord Hampshire found dead." Maggie quickly read the short article. Kitty's husband, Gerald, had hanged himself at his family estate while his wife, Katherine, was in town, and his son away at school. A member of the household staff had found the lord's body, along with a cryptic farewell note. The lord's first marriage had produced his son and heir, and after his first wife pre-deceased him, he had married the family governess, Katherine, an American.

Maggie set the article aside and scanned the other documents—Gerald and Kitty's marriage certification, two deeds—one for the estate, the other for a house in town, a small leather journal, and his last will and testament. She lingered with it in her hand.

Seeing her hesitation, Edward said, "I fear you'll think me very presumptuous, but I've undertaken inquiries on your behalf, and forwarded the duplicate will you sent me in your last dispatch to our family attorney, Evan Hanley."

Maggie rose and blurted out, " _Evan Hanley!_ "

"I hope I've done the right thing. Do you know him, Kitty?" Edward asked, concerned by her reaction.

Maggie gathered herself. Her hand went to her throat in a nervous gesture. "Only by reputation," she said.

"Yes," Edward went on in a pompous tone. "The man is a scoundrel in many respects, but I've always found him to be fair in his business dealings. Our grandmother trusted no one else."

"I see." Maggie resumed her lady-of-the-manor play-acting. "Thank you, Edward. I should like to meet with Mr. Hanley as soon as possible."

Maggie had no idea that a man of his age could move so quickly, but suddenly Edward was at her side, taking her hand. "I can only imagine how upsetting all of this must be for you, Kitty. Let me take this burden from you. I will deal with Hanley and make sure your affairs are in order," he said gallantly.

Maggie gave his hand a gentle squeeze then extricated hers from his. "Thank you, Edward. You are truly a good friend, but this is something I must do for Gerald. I hope you understand." Maggie fluttered her eyelashes at him, as she imagined Kitty would.

"Of course, Kitty. I do understand, and Gerald deserves nothing less, even under the circumstances." Edward responded in a way that was solicitous, and yet designed to make Kitty mindful of her husband's shortcomings.

Maggie sighed. She returned the documents to the case, save for the small journal. This, she would peruse in private. "I should like to return to my room now, Edward. I find myself quite tired. I should like to rest."

"I'll escort you there myself," he said, offering her his arm. She slipped her arm through his. As they climbed the stairs and then made their way to her room, he said, "I'll have Mrs. Dunn send up a tray, but I do hope you'll feel up to joining me later. I should very much like you to meet Jamison and Nora."

"Your children," Maggie murmured aloud. Quentin had told her something of them.

"Why yes," he said a bit perplexed by her tone and response.

Then Maggie added, "And your sister? Will she be joining us as well?" Maggie remembered the way Quentin spoke of his sister, Judith, in fond and affectionate terms.

"I'm afraid Judith mostly keeps to her room these days. She's in quite low spirits." Turning to his own thoughts, Edward said, "I blame my blackguard of a brother."

"Quentin?" Maggie asked softly.

"Yes, Quentin," Edward said harshly. He went on in an angry tone. "He left without a word to anyone, or a thought for the feelings of others. Why Judith bothers to care is quite beyond me."

"He's her brother and she loves him," Maggie said in defense of her husband. She shot Edward a withering glance.

"I'm sorry, my dear. I've upset you with troublesome family matters. You must forgive my harsh language. I can assure you it's reserved for my ne'er-do-well brother."

By now, they had reached her room, and Maggie was more than ready to be away from her host. "What time am I expected for dinner?" she asked wearily.

"Please come to the drawing room at six o'clock," he bowed formally then kissed her hand a retreated down the hall.

* * *

Later after her lunch tray was brought, Maggie opened Gerald Soames's leather journal and began to excavate what she could of Gerald and Kitty Soames's life together.

It was, what her father would have described as, "higgledy-piggledy." It was hardly the narrative-format diary Maggie was hoping for. Instead it served as an engagement diary and notebook, with a few descriptive passages thrown in for good measure. Initially the journal chronicled Gerald and Kitty's country life—the day of the hunt, a house party at a neighbor's estate, and the like. Then they relocated to "town." _London_ , Maggie thought.

Then the entries intensified in number, but diminished in detail. At first, there were social engagements in town. These gave way to "Cards at the club," then "Cards with Count P." Then the daily notations began—"Cards with Count P—up 50" or "Cards with Count P—down 30." Soon there are no "up" notations, only a series of "down" ones.

Maggie flipped to the final notations—a series of ever increasing "down" ones. The final notation was a brief narrative about his family name and worry for his son.

 _How dreadful for her_ , Maggie thought, as she set the journal aside. It explained why Lord Hampshire committed suicide. _How much of this was Kitty supposed to be privy to?_ Maggie wondered. She found herself feeling a sense of kinship with Lady Hampshire. She was an American and a governess like her. And she must look very much like her for Edward to be convinced that she was in fact Kitty Soames.

Maggie paced the length of her room. Then she wandered out into the hallway. Turning away from the passage that led to the main stairs and the other bedrooms, she walked down the corridor to where it bent. From there it was nearly dark—no longer lit, for no one inhabited this part of the Great House. At the end of the corridor, she found it—the locked door to the west wing.

She tried the doorknob—it was indeed locked. A few steps away, beyond the locked door, Quentin sat in the I Ching trance—a part of her longed to go to him. Even if she could, he wouldn't know her. She rested her forehead against the door and let the longing take her. She was exhausted from the pretense. She wanted to go home. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Excuse me, ma'am," came a male voice from behind her.

She hadn't heard anyone approach. Hastily wiping away her tears, she put on her Lady Kitty countenance and turned to face him.

"Hello."

"You must be Lady Hampshire," the man said.

"I am. And you are?" Maggie let the question hang in the air.

"Wilkins, ma'am—Dirk Wilkins, the Collins family steward," he answered, removing his cap. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a tone that was more baffled than accusatory.

"I must have taken a wrong turn and lost my way. It's such an unusual house," Maggie said.

"I'll be happy to escort you," he said, offering his arm. She took it, as he added, "Where were you trying to go?"

Maggie drew a deep breath. "I was just stretching my legs."

"I'd be happy to escort you around the grounds," he said with a gleam in his eye that Maggie found unsettling.

"No, thank you. I should rest and prepare for dinner. Perhaps, another time," she said with formal cordiality.

After Wilkins delivered her to her room, Maggie threw herself on the bed, and let loose a flood of frustrated tears.

* * *

Maggie had done her best to remedy the damaging effects of her earlier tears with the 1897 resources available to her. A handkerchief and cold water from her washbasin had served to make a cold compress for her eyes.

Lady Hampshire's trunks were tightly packed with beautiful gowns. Maggie's favorite was of deep plum silk. But she knew she must choose the black silk, as mourning attire was part of the pretense. She wondered, even as she donned the black dress, how long she was expected to wear black. Gerald had been dead for some months—surely the period of mourning must soon be at an end.

As the clock struck six that evening, Maggie stood at the top of the main staircase. She could hear voices in the drawing room. She gathered herself once more, and slowly descended the steps, until at last she arrived at the entry to the drawing room. There she found Edward and his two children.

"Good evening," she announced herself from the doorway.

"Ah, Kitty, my dear. Come join us, please," Edward said expansively as he rose to greet her. "Allow me to introduce my son, Jamison."

Jamison bowed formally to her. "Pleased to meet you, Lady Hampshire."

Edward continued, "And my daughter, Nora."

Nora curtsied awkwardly and said in a well-rehearsed turn of phrase, "How do you do, Lady Hampshire?"

"Very well, Nora." And then to Jamison, Maggie said, "I'm pleased to meet you too. But Lady Hampshire is far too formal. I hope you'll both call me Lady Kitty."

Jamison, Maggie found, was the spitting image of David in her own time. The family connection was undeniable. Nora resembled Amy Jennings a bit too, especially the expression in her wounded, suspicious eyes. The resemblance was enough to make Maggie wonder whether there was a familial connection between the Jennings and Collins families.

Then the children peppered her with an unceasing string of questions. Jamison asked mostly about her journey, and Maggie found it necessary to dissemble a great deal. Nora was clearly more interested in Kitty's intentions toward her father.

Maggie had never found dinner with David and Amy to be particularly taxing, but Jamison and Nora had worn her out. By the time they adjourned to the drawing room, and Mrs. Dunn arrived to escort them to bed, Maggie was exhausted. She retired to the armchair and warmed herself by the fire, while Edward poured her a brandy.

"I'm afraid the children were too much for you," he said as he handed her the snifter and took a seat across from her. "I've considered sending them away to school, you know."

"Really?" she was genuinely surprised. "Why don't you employ a governess?"

"It's a long story," Edward said. Then he looked into "Kitty's" eyes and said, "And I'd much rather talk about you tonight, my dear Kitty."

Maggie was prepared to make a hasty retreat to her room, when there was a loud knock at the front door. Edward seemed to recollect himself. "It must be my cousin, and probably his fiancé. They often visit in the late evening."

Edward went to answer the door. "Good evening, Barnabas. Miss Bouchard," Maggie heard him say.

"Edward, how many times must I ask you to call me Angelique?" came a woman's voice.

In a moment, they were in the room. Maggie stood. _Barnabas?_

* * *

Barnabas stood transfixed for a moment—certain that here, at last, was Josette reborn. _Josette_ , his mind called out.

Edward was making introductions—Lady Hampshire, his cousin, Barnabas Collins and his fiancé, Angelique Bouchard. "I'm pleased to meet you both," Lady Hampshire told them.

Several months before, when Barnabas met the family governess, Rachel, she too reminded him of Josette. There had been something in her eyes and coloring that brought his long-dead love to mind. But Rachel was so different from Josette in her bearing and countenance—not so for Lady Hampshire.

"I do hope you'll forgive me," Lady Hampshire said. "My journey here was quite taxing and I've not fully recovered my strength."

"Your journey?" Barnabas asked.

"Yes, I've only recently returned to Maine from England," the lady answered.

"Cousin Barnabas is from the English branch of the Collins family," Edward interjected.

Angelique paced away and stationed herself at the bay window, lost in thought.

Barnabas continued, "And what brings you back to Maine, Lady Hampshire?"

"I'm recently widowed," she answered in prim discretion.

Barnabas bowed his head in a sign of respect for the departed and said in what he hoped was his most sincere tone, "I am sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Mr. Collins"

Now Barnabas smiled and his eyes met the lady's. There was something of a smile in hers too—an invitation perhaps? "I hope we'll be friends, and that as such, you'll call me Barnabas."

Now Angelique swept across the room, and added, "And I hope you'll call me Angelique."

"I should like that," Lady Hampshire said demurely. "My friends call me Kitty. Don't they, Edward?" She bestowed an adoring look on him, or so it seemed to Barnabas. "But now, I am flagging," she appealed to Edward.

"I hope we will see you again soon," Barnabas said.

"Why, of course," Edward said. "You must come for dinner tomorrow—both of you. Perhaps Judith will join us. She always seems to revive when you're here, Barnabas."

"I thank you for the compliment," Barnabas replied formally.

Edward offered Kitty his arm. "I'll escort Kitty upstairs, and rejoin you shortly," he said. "Don't stand on ceremony. Please help yourselves to the brandy."

Barnabas bowed deeply and formally to the lady. "Goodnight _Kitty_ , until tomorrow."

Kitty inclined her head slightly, and then ascended the stairs with Edward on her arm.

* * *

Barnabas stood watching Kitty's departing figure, unconscious of Angelique beside him. "And so it begins again," she hissed.

He turned to face her. "What?" he asked with faux innocence.

"Don't trifle with me, Barnabas. I'm not blind, and I know you well enough to recognize that look in your eyes," Angelique fumed. "She is _not_ Josette, and even if she were, you and I are engaged to be married."

"I've not forgotten," he said.

"Then act like it. I'll not have you making eyes at her in that way … or worse," she added.

"Then free me from this curse so that I can go to her as an ordinary man," he pleaded.

" _That_ was not our arrangement," Angelique shot back. "There are months yet to go," she began then softened. "I, at least have been happy, Barnabas. These past months have been the happiest I've ever known. Has it really been so bad?"

"No, Angelique—no, it hasn't been bad. I've known happiness too—such as it is for one who lives as I do."

"Then why, Barnabas? Why do you look at her that way?"

He turned away. "Because, she _is_ Josette. I feel it; I know it to be so. And no matter the time or distance, I am drawn to her—she remains a part of me—a part of my soul. I find I must have her to be whole. I am sorry, Angelique."

"And I am sorry too, Barnabas—for I feel the same … _about you_. For all of the humiliation of forever being second to Josette DuPres, I still want you. But take heed, Barnabas—do not ruin yet another incarnation of Josette. If you pursue her, I will ruin her, once and for all."


	8. Chapter 8

A séance has been held at the Great House on the Collinwood Estate. Seeking answers to the mysteries wrought by an artifact of unknown origin, four people have come together to contact its last known owner. As a result, Maggie Collins has woken, as if from a dream, to find herself in Collinwood in 1897—alone and desperate to find a way back to her own time.

* * *

When Maggie woke, the room was still dark. She was wearing her knit dress. She was certain she had been wearing a muslin nightgown. She sat up. Quentin was sitting on the edge of the bed; Julia was on the other side with her medical bag on her lap. Professor Stokes stood sentry-like at the foot of the bed.

"Maggie—thank goodness," Quentin said. "We were so worried about you."

"What happened?" Maggie asked in a small voice.

"Don't you remember?" Julia asked with a pointedly raised eyebrow.

"We were holding a séance," Maggie said.

"Yes," Professor Stokes said. "We should never have attempted it. It proved too much for you."

"Too much?" Maggie's head was still in a fog.

"Yes. And we won't attempt another," Quentin said angrily. He rose. "I forbid it." He stormed out of the room.

"Quentin, don't go!" Maggie pleaded with her departing husband.

"I've a monograph that requires my attention, if we're to get to the bottom of this. Get some rest, my dear," the professor said, as he too left the room.

Julia opened her medical bag and took out a syringe and needle, filling it from a small vial. "This sedative will help you sleep," she told Maggie.

"I don't need a sedative, Julia."

"I have business to attend to for Barnabas back at the Old House. I'll check on you again in the morning," Julia said, as she administered the sedative.

"I don't need a sedative …"

Maggie drifted off. Then she heard something. She struggled to sit up. "Who is it?" she called out. "Who's there?" There was something outside of her window— _a bat_. Then, against all understanding, it transformed into a man—a cloaked man, shrouded in darkness. As the man emerged from the alcove of the window into the dark room, Maggie cried out for her husband, " _Quentin! Help me. Please, Quentin. Help me!_ "

* * *

"Wake up, Lady Kitty. Wake up." Elsie bent over her, gently shaking "Lady Kitty."

Maggie pulled herself to sitting. "Where am I?" she asked.

"Collinwood, ma'am."

"Collinwood," Maggie murmured. "And it's still 1897?"

The girl smiled at her, "Yes ma'am … I mean, yes, Lady Kitty. I've drawn your bath," the girl told her.

Sitting in the tub of quickly cooling water, a fresh wave of desperation and sadness swept over Maggie. Another day must be spent in 1897, searching for a way back to her own time. _There must be a way_. She'd never felt more alone than she did at that moment.

As she had the day before, she sat at the vanity brushing her hair, and watching Elsie in the mirror as she made the bed, and laid out another of Lady Kitty's black dresses.

As she caught Elsie's eye, the maid asked, "Did you know him ma'am? Mr. Quentin, I mean."

"No, why do you ask?"

"It's just that you called his name in your sleep," the girl replied and then catching herself, she added, "I really should mind my own, as Mrs. Dunn would say."

"It's all right, Elsie. It must be because Edward spoke about him yesterday. I guess he was just on my mind." Then she asked, "What is Quentin like?"

"Feckless and spoiled, Mrs. Dunn would say—because he was old Mrs. Collins's favorite—and could get away with anything. But I'd say he's charming and has a way with the ladies. All the ladies like him. And he's handsome—very, very handsome." The girl smiled the kind of smile that Quentin often inspired in women.

It could have made Maggie jealous to hear her husband spoken of in that way, but it just made her miss him all the more.

* * *

When Maggie arrived downstairs later, she was mentally prepared for another day of play-acting, but she also decided it was time to seek out Evan Hanley. _He must be the key_ , she thought. _Somehow all of it—the puzzle-box, the séance, and now his connection with Lord Hampshire's estate—it all led to him_.

She found Edward in the library.

"Here you are, at last, Kitty. I nearly gave up hope of seeing you before I leave," Edward said looking up from the desk.

"Leave?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I must go to the cannery today. There are certain business matters that cannot wait," he said in a tone that suggested the matters were of great import. "I am sorry to leave you alone so soon after your arrival, but I thought perhaps Miss Bouchard could be prevailed upon to keep you company while I'm away."

" _No_." She hadn't meant to sound so emphatic. She added in a more gracious tone, "No, thank you, Edward. I have other plans for the day."

"Plans?" he asked as though the word itself was incomprehensible.

"Yes, I should like to see Mr. Hanley this afternoon."

"But Kitty, I really must go to the cannery. If you will wait until tomorrow, I can go with you. Indeed, there's no need for you to exert yourself on these matters. I want to help, and as a man of business I'm better suited to dealing with them," he said in a high-handed, patronizing way, or so it seemed to Maggie.

Maggie sighed then she smiled and began, "Thank you Edward. You are so good to me, but this is something I must do for _Gerald_. Before he …" here she feigned delicacy on the subject of Gerald Soames's death. "He asked me to attend to his affairs personally. Well, I had no way of knowing what was to come, but I made him a promise," Maggie lied. "And a promise is a promise. Don't you agree, Edward?"

"Yes, of course, Kitty. I understand. But at least let me take you there in my carriage on my way to the cannery. Will you let me do at least that much for you, Kitty?"

"Thank you, Edward. I'd appreciate that." She bestowed a look of gratitude on him through long, batted lashes.

* * *

Maggie stood at the front door of Evan Hanley's home for a long moment watching Edward's carriage retreat down the drive. She was exhausted from his smothering attention, to say nothing of the ceaseless playacting. Just for these few moments, she was free to be herself before resuming the role of Lady Hampshire.

 _The key is here. I feel it_ , she thought. _Perhaps when I find it, I'll return to my own time_.

The attorney's housekeeper answered "Kitty's" knock and showed her inside. Unfortunately the man himself was out at the moment and not expected back until later. The housekeeper, though chatty, was of limited help—the attorney had gone to Bangor on business and stayed overnight as he often did. He rarely told her when to expect his return—he didn't need to. Having worked for him for so long, the housekeeper told her, they just understood each other. At the end of this, long winded and not particularly enlightening explanation, the housekeeper had offered her tea.

All at once, Maggie was aware that other than Mrs. Dunn's exceptionally dry toast points and coffee, she'd had nothing to eat all day. "Thank you. I'd appreciate it," she told the housekeeper.

When the older woman left her, Maggie made a closer study of Evan Hanley's sitting room. It was decidedly masculine. It was ornate in keeping with the style of the time, but dark and heavy. It smelt of candle wax and tobacco—pipe smoke, perhaps.

The housekeeper delivered a tea tray and then disappeared once again into the bowels of the house, leaving Maggie to enjoy her tea, alone with her own thoughts. The tea, she found, revived her. It was the ideal time, she thought, to take a discrete look around.

She crept to the door of the sitting room. Beyond it, on the other side of the entryway, she could see the entrance to his study. She tiptoed across to it. The door was slightly ajar. She peeked in. The room was dim, lit only by the pale afternoon light that found its way to a large window. The room was lined with books, punctuated by art and artifacts. She took a tentative step inside. A fearsome wooden mask that hung on one wall gave her a fright; on another, there were two carved, wooden clubs—their purpose unclear, but likely untoward.

Interspersed with the books were smaller objects of all varieties. The puzzle-box, if it were there, would be one of these. Her eyes scanned the bookcases, until at last she saw it—a small wooden box. From this angle, she couldn't be sure.

"I would offer to help, but you seem to have helped yourself," a voice shattered the quiet and stopped Maggie in her tracks.

She gathered her best Lady Hampshire mien, and said, "I beg your pardon. You must be …" She turned back to face him. The color drained from Maggie's face. She felt a shiver ripple through her.

"Evan Hanley, at your service." He completed her sentence for her with a deep bow.

" _You_!" Maggie cried. "You … it can't be."

"You are the second woman to react to me that way recently. I must have a doppelganger somewhere, Miss?" He smiled. "Miss?" he asked again.

Maggie recovered herself enough to say, " _Lady_ —Lady Hampshire."

Evan continued in a genial voice, "Well, I don't believe we've met before, Lady Hampshire. I certainly would have remembered. Do you believe in the notion of doppelgangers? The notion that each of us has an exact double somewhere in the world—living a completely different life." When she said nothing, only examined him through suspicious eyes, he continued. "Well, I'm quite certain of it. Otherwise, I'd not have this effect on total strangers. Have I shocked you?"

"No," Maggie returned in a small voice. "It's just that you do very much favor someone I once knew. So much so that I thought you must be him, though I realize that's impossible."

"Oh? And why is that?" he asked.

"Because he lived—and died—far from here," she said.

"I see." He went on, "Well, now that we've been properly, if somewhat unorthodoxly introduced, may I ask what you're doing here, in my private study?"

"How embarrassing," she said. "I do seem to have made myself at home. I was told that you have a rich and interesting collection from your travels. My curiosity to see it got the better of me. I actually came on matters of business," she turned the conversation without waiting for his response to her explanation. "I understand that Edward Collins took the liberty of engaging your services on my behalf."

"Yes. He gave me the duplicate of your late husband's last will and testament that you dispatched to him, and I've made a number of inquiries already. Frankly, I'm expecting a cable today or tomorrow in response."

"So there's nothing you can tell me?" she pressed him.

"I prefer to wait until I have all of the information. Let's plan to meet again tomorrow."

Maggie was crestfallen. She longed to ask him about the box then and there, but she was afraid to tip her hand too soon. "Tomorrow, then. I prefer to meet here if you don't mind," she added.

"Of course. How do you like Collinwood, Lady Hampshire?" he asked cordially.

She wasn't quite sure what to make of his question, and she was still somewhat disconcerted from his resemblance to a man from her past. "How do I like it? Why, I like it just fine. Edward takes prodigiously good care of me."

"Yes, I can imagine," Hanley responded with a knowing gleam in his eyes. This gave way, as he asked, "And Judith—Miss Collins—how is she?"

"I'm afraid we've not been introduced. I understand she's been unwell and prefers to keep to her room."

Evan turned away from her. "Still? I see," he said turning back to face her.

Maggie could see at once from his expression and the manner in which he inquired how things stood for Evan Hanley. She continued, "But she's expected to join us for dinner this evening. If so, I'd be happy to give you a full account tomorrow."

"Thank you, Lady Hampshire," he said with a bow of his head.

"My friends call me, Kitty," she said.

"And mine call me, Evan," he returned. "And now, I've just returned from travel, Kitty, and I'm anxious to refresh myself. But first, I'd be happy to deliver you to the Great House in my carriage."

"No, thank you, Evan. I prefer to walk. There's plenty of daylight still, and I've been craving some exercise. I'll come again tomorrow—without Edward, if I can arrange it."

"Just tell him I've asked to speak to you alone. He'll bristle, but I daresay he'll accede to your wishes."

She said, "I believe we're going to get along famously, Evan."

He walked her to the door where they said polite farewells.

* * *

Maggie traversed the distance between the attorney's home and the Great House at a leisurely pace. Each step served to help her counter the shock she'd experienced upon meeting Evan Hanley. Perhaps he'd been right. Perhaps doppelgangers did exist. And if so, perhaps they transcended time. Or perhaps the man she knew as Nicholas Blair in 1968 was descended from Evan Hanley.

This train of thought led her directly to Barnabas Collins. Another Barnabas Collins existed in this time. This made three—the one who lived in the 1700's whose portrait hung in the foyer of the Great House, the one she met here, and the one who lived at the Old House in her own time. And in each case, the family resemblance was so strong that it called to mind this notion of doppelgangers.

As the Great House came into view, Maggie set this aside and turned her thoughts to the immediate. She must return to the house and once again become Lady Hampshire. She sighed. She was still stranded in this time and had no idea how to get home to Collinwood in 1969—to Quentin and the friends she left behind there.

Arriving at the house, Maggie hung Kitty's cloak on a hook in the entryway. She paused momentarily in the foyer. It was unlikely Edward had returned from the cannery. She suddenly felt at loose ends. Perhaps she should seek out Jamison and Nora, and engage them in a game or read them a story. They must be terribly lonely with the household situated as it was. And in her previous life, before marrying Gerald, Kitty had been a governess, so it should seem natural that she would have an interest in the children. But then Maggie thought how unfair it would be to them. She was only looking for a way to pass some time, but they might develop some attachment, only to have it taken away when she returned to 1969—it wasn't fair.

Instead, she would select a book from the library and sit by the fire and read. In her own time, she would have liked nothing better. But here, where she desperately needed to find a way home, it felt like marking time … marking time until what? Until she discovered whatever it was she needed to do to return home.

She found the library door open, so she went in and began looking around. As she perused the shelves, she missed the murder mysteries that Elizabeth Stoddard had tucked away discretely in a corner. Here she found mostly histories, books on local botany and wildlife, and classical works guaranteed to put her to sleep. A history would be best, she supposed.

"Lady Hampshire."

Maggie heard a voice behind her, and turned to greet its source. "Miss Bouchard," Maggie said graciously. "But I thought we agreed last evening that you must call me, Kitty."

"Very well—Kitty," the blond woman returned, a rigid smile fixed firmly on her face.

Now in the afternoon sunlight, Maggie could see her features much more clearly than on the previous night. Her features were those of Roger Collins's second wife Cassandra. Cassandra had dark hair, but those eyes and the set of her mouth—those were the same. _Another doppelganger?_ she wondered.

"I'm glad I've found you alone," Angelique continued. "I was hoping to have a word with you, _woman-to-woman_ ," she said, in a tone that implied greater intimacy than existed between the two women.

"Of course. What's on your mind?"

"Well, it's just that I couldn't help but notice how Mr. Collins behaved toward you."

Maggie tamped down the impulse to tell her to mind her own business. Instead she said, "Edward and my late husband, Gerald, had been friends for years."

Angelique interrupted her. "You misunderstand me, Kitty. I meant Mr. _Barnabas_ Collins, my fiancé. You must have noticed how he looked at you. You see, Kitty, I believe that you remind him of someone he once knew—someone who died quite tragically."

"I am sorry, but I don't see …" Maggie began, only to be interrupted again.

"I am completely devoted to Barnabas, and I won't have you or anyone else come between us," Angelique said with a smile so deep her dimples seemed to be etched into her cheeks. "Stay away from him, Kitty, because I don't look kindly on interference in my affairs …" she hissed.

"Ah, Kitty and Angelique, here you are." Edward entered the room and inadvertently put an end to Angelique's incipient threat. "I hope your day wasn't too very taxing," he said to Kitty.

"Not at all," Maggie responded in an uneasy voice.

"Good, good." Edward looked around as though wondering what to say next.

Angelique spared him by saying, "I'm so glad you're here, Edward. I've decided to take you up on your generous offer to occupy the suite of rooms in the east wing. It's well past time for me to leave the Inn and feel settled somewhere—until I settle at the Old House, that is."

"Of course, Angelique," Edward responded. "Name the date."

"Why—tomorrow, I think. Now that the decision is made, I see no need to wait. I've only a few trunks to be delivered," she said to Edward though her eyes never left Maggie's. "Well," Angelique announced, "I must go back to the Inn to dress for dinner and make arrangements for my trunks to be sent over." She smiled a smile that Maggie thought could cut glass. Then she swept from the room, leaving Edward and "Kitty" on their own.

When Angelique was gone, Edward said, "Come join me in the drawing room, Kitty. The fire is lit and we'll be much more comfortable there until it's time to dress for dinner." He offered her his arm and escorted her to the drawing room.

The mention of dinner sent a small shiver through Maggie. How could she sit at the table with Barnabas and Angelique after their recent encounter? It was clear that Angelique hated Kitty and her presence at Collinwood. But she could hardly tell Edward what transpired between them.

Edward led "Kitty" to the corner of the davenport nearest the fireplace. She sat for a moment simply enjoying the warmth of the fire. Edward sat close beside her. "I'm so glad you've come home, Kitty," he began. She angled herself toward him, while still trying to stay within range of the room's source of heat.

"So am I, Edward," she said.

He laid his hand on hers and said, "I don't just mean coming home to Maine. I hope you'll consider _Collinwood_ your home—for as long as you're here—for as long as you like."

"Edward, you're so kind," Maggie said in an exaggeratedly sweet voice.

"You must know that it's more than kindness," Edward said as he brought his face to "Kitty's," his lips seeking hers.

In that moment, all Maggie could picture was Roger—David's father, Carolyn's uncle—and then she realized with force the fact that he actually _was_ Quentin's brother. "Oh," Maggie trilled as she artfully collapsed into the corner of the couch in a "faint."

"Kitty? Speak to me, Kitty," Edward clucked and patted her hand.

Maggie held her pose for nearly a full minute for maximum effect. Then she let her eyes flutter open. "What happened?" she asked.

"Kitty, my dear, are you all right?"

"I'm not sure," Maggie began. She brought a hand to her forehead for emphasis. "What happened?" she repeated.

"Don't you remember?" Edward asked. "You fainted, my dear. I blame myself," he said.

"Oh?" Maggie said.

Edward colored. "I know it's too soon after … well, I hope you know that I'm very fond of you, Kitty. I know it's too soon, only don't rule it out completely—you mustn't believe that you'll never find love again."

Maggie was genuinely touched by his words, "Edward," she began in her quest to let him down gently.

But he held up his hand and stayed her next words, "I'm so sorry, Kitty. I pressed you too far, too soon. But I don't want to leave any doubt as to my feelings for you. I hope, in time, after you've mourned Gerald, you'll come to feel the same about me as I do about you."

With a steadying hand from Edward, Maggie pushed herself up to sitting. "I don't know what to say," she said demurely.

"You needn't say anything right now," he responded.

Seeing that she might turn her "fainting spell" to her advantage, she asked, "Edward, would you be very upset with me if I forego dinner and have a tray sent to my room this evening? I still feel rather weak." She poured it on.

"Upset—no, disappointed—of course. It will be a dreary meal without your presence, but I understand. Perhaps I should send for Dr. Woodard?"

"No," she said firmly. "I don't think that's necessary. Besides, I'll feel so foolish explaining what led to my fainting spell," she added pointedly.

He took the hint. "You're quite right. I'll see you to your room."

He offered her his arm. She took it and leaned on it for support, though she needed none. Then they exited the drawing room. Stepping into the foyer, Maggie saw at the top of the stairs a woman descending who could only be Judith Collins. It was as Quentin had always said—Judith was remarkably like Elizabeth Stoddard in appearance. But Judith was quite pale; she looked drawn and thin. One hand tightly gripped the banister for support as she alighted the stairs; the other was at her throat, gently wrapped around the high collar of her evening dress.

"Judith!" Edward began, genuinely pleased to see his sister out of her room of her own initiative.

"Is Barnabas here?" she asked.

"Not yet," Edward replied stiffly. "Judith, may I present Kitty Soames, Lady Hampshire."

Judith gave "Kitty" a swift, dismissive nod before continuing, "But he is still expected for dinner?"

"Yes," Edward answered in a stern, irritated tone. "He and Angelique are expected shortly. I'm afraid Kitty is unwell and won't be able to join us, but I hope that you two will become friends in due course," he added in a lighter tone.

But Judith's eyes seemed blank to Maggie, and her affect and response reflected a preoccupation that was elsewhere. Judith said, "I'll be waiting by the fire until Barnabas arrives." With that, she crossed the foyer and entered the drawing room, presumably to await Barnabas's arrival.

As "Kitty" and Edward ascended the stairs, Maggie observed, "She certainly seems devoted to your cousin."

"Yes, they've grown quite close in recent weeks. It seems that he alone fills the void left by my brother's departure. But I do worry," he sighed.

"Oh?" Maggie invited him to say more.

"Yes, I worry that the situation is untenable."

"What do you mean?" Maggie asked.

"Only this—while it's not unheard of for cousins to wed, especially distantly related ones, Barnabas is engaged to Angelique. I don't understand Judith's sudden devotion to a man who is unavailable to her." By now they had arrived outside of Kitty's room. "It's another reason I'm so happy about your presence here, Kitty. Judith needs a friend and confidant."

"Surely with Angelique taking up residence in the east wing, she and Judith will become better friends. Perhaps it will help her see that a relationship with Barnabas is impossible, or perhaps Barnabas has simply taken Quentin's place as the object of Judith's worry and concern, and she has no romantic designs on him," Maggie said.

She slid her arm free from Edward's. But Edward took her hands in his. "Perhaps," he smiled. "Kitty, you are wise as well as beautiful," he said and brought her hands to his lips. He kissed them gently. "Goodnight, Kitty."

* * *

When Barnabas rose that evening, he was surprised though not displeased, to find his servant, Sandor, waiting for him instead of Angelique. In the weeks since they struck their deal—he would give her a year, and at its end, he was free to decide their future—he welcomed her daily presence. Until now, he had been content. So this was deeply unsettling. As the sun set and released him to live at night, he emerged from his coffin thinking not of his fiancé, who dutifully met him each evening, but of Kitty Soames—Lady Hampshire, who he was sure was his own Josette reincarnated.

He was worried though. He should not have allowed Angelique to see his true feelings. He should not have spoken as he did. In doing so, he had put Kitty Soames at risk. He had been overwhelmed by his emotions—by seeing Josette again—by recognizing that though her name might be different, she was his own Josette. He would not betray himself to Angelique again. He would be more careful in his quest to claim Josette for his own. The quest would begin that evening at dinner.

* * *

Barnabas went directly to the Great House. He would ask the housekeeper to telephone the Inn, and relay the message to Angelique that she should hire a carriage to bring her to the Great House that night. But when he arrived, he found Angelique already there waiting for him.

He could hear her voice punctuated by laughter emanating from the drawing room doors. His energy suddenly dissipated. He removed his caped coat and hung it by the door. He had hoped for some time on his own there before she arrived, but it was not to be.

He went to the doorway and surveyed the scene. Edward stood with his back to the fireplace sipping a sherry. Angelique sat in the armchair, as though holding court. A diminished version of Judith sat in the corner of the couch. She looked remarkably pale and drawn. He blamed himself for that, and yet found it necessary. Kitty was not yet there.

It was Judith who first noticed—or perhaps sensed—Barnabas standing in the doorway. "Barnabas, you've come at last," she said with more vitality than was reflected in her appearance. "Please join me," she continued, patting the couch beside her. Barnabas graciously inclined his head to her, crossed the room, and sat where she indicated. "It's been too long since I last saw you," Judith began.

"We were here last evening," Barnabas said. "But you'd already retired."

Edward made a dismissive snort in the back of his throat.

"I would have exerted myself had I known you'd be here," Judith said. Her soft gaze never left Barnabas.

"The mistress of Collinwood should always try to exert herself," Edward said in a stern voice.

Barnabas intervened to protect his enthralled cousin. "And where is your guest, Edward, Lady Hampshire?"

Edward felt the flush of embarrassment suffuse him. "Kitty—Lady Hampshire—is indisposed," he stammered.

"I am sorry to hear it," Angelique chirped.

"As am I," Barnabas concluded. His wary eyes fixed on his nominal fiancé.

* * *

Dinner proved to be a tedious affair. Instead of being able to watch, and listen to Kitty Soames, Barnabas had to content himself with making discrete inquiries of Edward, while Angelique was engaged in conversation with Judith. It was unsatisfactory to say the least. He must settle for small nuggets of information about her past, all the while seeking to confirm what his heart already told him was true—that Kitty was, in fact, Josette DuPres reborn.

When the four retired to the drawing room after dinner, Barnabas found the pull too great. He found it impossible to know that _she_ was there, under the same roof, in the same house, and yet he was not to see her. He _must_ —he must find a way.

The others carried on their insipid conversation; it sounded like a dull buzzing in his ears. Then he could bear it no longer. When the moment presented itself, he said to Edward, "There is a family history in the library that I should very much like to borrow. Would you mind if I took it to the Old House for a few days?"

"No, of course not," Edward responded in a magnanimous tone.

"I'll just go now and retrieve it," Barnabas said.

"Would you like me to assist you, Cousin Barnabas?" Judith asked. "I know where every book is in the library."

"No, thank you, Judith. I know where to find this particular volume," Barnabas replied formally. And then to Angelique, he added, "When I return, we should take our leave."

Barnabas made immediately for the library. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him. A single gas-lamp provided the room's only illumination. He went to the window and opened it onto a moonless night. He'd come with only one purpose—he must see her. Now he channeled one of the powers imbued by the curse of the vampire—the power to transform and then transcend the barriers that stood between him and Kitty.

The transformation allowed him to access her room; he materialized inside the alcove of her bay window. His heart called out to her—not by the name she now used—but by her true name, _Josette_.

 _You truly are my Josette_ , Barnabas thought. Now conflict tore at him. He longed for her. He longed to go to her—to take her in his arms and take her as his own—to feel her life-force pulse from her to him. His fangs appeared of their own volition. But it would be a hollow victory to have her that way—in thrall to him, but not of her own choosing.

He turned away from her. _No, I mustn't_ , he thought. _No, it must be the other way. She must choose to come to me—to join me—on her own. I must release Josette from the façade of Kitty Soames then she will remember the love that we had, and she will come to me._

* * *

Maggie stirred. She turned over then sat up. "Is someone there?" she called out. She fumbled to light the oil-lamp on the table beside her. The dim light grew enough for her to search the room with her eyes. There was no one, but the window had blown open and the breeze was enough to move the heavy curtains. She sighed as she slid out of the bed and went to secure the window.

She paused for a moment looking out at the familiar grounds of the estate below. Tomorrow she must find her way back to her own Collinwood.

* * *

By the time Barnabas rejoined the others, impatience permeated the room. Angelique was pacing; Judith kept looking to the doorway in anticipation of Barnabas's return. Edward alone seemed at ease. "Ah, there you are," he said upon seeing Barnabas in the doorway, book in hand. "I fear we've tried Angelique's patience."

"Not at all," she said, a rigid smile on her lips.

Barnabas said by way of explanation, "There are so many excellent volumes in the Collinwood collection. I found myself perusing them again. I'm sorry, my dear."

Angelique eyed him suspiciously. Her smiled never wavered as she said, "My only concern is that the hour grows late, and I must return to the Inn this evening."

"Must you leave already, Barnabas?" Judith asked.

"I'm afraid so. As Angelique said, it is getting late, but I promise I'll come again tomorrow," Barnabas replied. Already a plan was taking shape in his mind. He must be alone with Kitty. _Then I will make her remember her true self … she will know that she is Josette … and that she is destined to be mine._


	9. Chapter 9

A séance has been held at the Great House on the Collinwood Estate. Four people came together to seek information about a mysterious artifact. As a result, Maggie Collins has been cast backward in time to the year 1897—a year that holds not only the answer to the mystery of the strange puzzle-box, but also danger for Maggie herself.

* * *

For the first time since a séance displaced Maggie Collins from her own time and sent her to 1897, she expected to wake where she did. She had not dreamt of sleeping in her own bed, beside her husband; she had not dreamt of her Collinwood and her friends in 1969. Instead, she had slept heavily, and for the most part, had had a dreamless night.

So when she woke in the guest bedroom, she was not surprised. She woke with a new sense of purpose. She woke with the feeling that this was the day that she would find her way back to her home in 1969, but she needed an ally to help her. She needed to ditch Edward for the day so that she could meet with Evan Hanley on her own. Maybe she could use their mutual embarrassment over Edward's overtures to Kitty to her advantage, to distance herself, if only for the afternoon.

Today, Lady Kitty would wear the purple day dress—mourning was over. If this was to be her last day in 1897, as she hoped it would be, she didn't want to spend it in mourning garb. If Maggie were honest, from the moment she saw it, she'd wanted to wear the purple dress. It was the perfect costume for a day spent playing the role of Lady Hampshire.

Once again, with Elsie's help, Maggie had bathed then dressed and styled her hair as Kitty Soames. In the bureau drawer, she found one of the two pairs of wrist-length kid gloves that made the trip with Kitty. She selected the rich gray, which paired well with purple. She tucked them into Kitty's small handbag, and retrieved a short cloak suitable for daywear. For the first time since she arrived in 1897, she descended the Great House stairs before midday.

She went first to the drawing room though she thought it unlikely that Edward would be there at this time of day. Finding it unoccupied, she headed to the library next. Although she had been there only a couple of days, she already knew the patterns of the household—Judith in her room, the kids in the small schoolroom upstairs, and Edward in the library with the morning paper.

She knocked on the library door and entered upon his invitation. "Good morning, Edward," she said from the doorway.

Edward sat at the desk—the Collinsport Star in front of him. Good morning, Kitty," he said, his eyes still downcast for a moment. Looking up and rising, he continued, "Ah, Kitty." His eyes widened slightly. "You've … you're …" he stammered. "Your mourning clothes … what does this mean?"

All at once, Maggie could see how given the events of the previous day, Edward might misinterpret the situation. Rather than letting him down again, she replied, "Yes. I thought it was time." After all, it might well be her last day in 1897. She offered him what she hoped would be an appropriately demure smile.

"I am so very pleased, Kitty," he said, moving to her side with rarely seen alacrity. "But I'm afraid I have some bad news, my dear."

"What? What is it, Edward?" Maggie's concern was genuine. Her mind flashed to Judith's pallor and indisposition.

Edward continued, unaware of the concern he'd excited, "I must go into town this evening. I must take Judith's place at the hospital board dinner. Well, you saw her. She can hardly go in her condition, and a Collins family member is always present. I'm afraid it must be me. Can you forgive me for abandoning you this evening? I promise it won't happen again."

"Edward, there's nothing to forgive. Of course, you must go—just as I must go visit Evan Hanley today."

"Must you?" he asked.

"Yes. He promised he'd have news for me today."

"I'll come with you, of course. I'll have Wilkins bring the carriage around," he said decisively.

But Maggie had other plans. "Although I'm no longer wearing mourning clothes, this is one last thing that I must do for Gerald," she said with appropriate gravity. "Under the circumstances," which she purposely left undefined, "I think it best to go alone. Don't you?"

He turned his back to her and seemed to consider. At last, he heaved a deep, almost visible sigh. He turned back to face her. "Of course, you're right, Kitty. It was thoughtless of me. But please allow me to have Wilkins drive you."

"No, thank you, Edward. I'd much rather walk."

"It's a rather long walk, Kitty. And after you fainted yesterday, well, I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you."

She drew a deep breath and began, "Oh, Edward, you are so solicitous, but there's no need. I'm quite recovered from my fainting spell. In fact, I think the fresh air will do me a world of good."

"Well, if you're sure," he said taking her hand. "I'll walk you to the door." He escorted her to the main doors of the Great House and helped her into her short cloak. "I'll see you when you return," he kissed her hand and watched her leave.

* * *

When Maggie arrived at Evan Hanley's house, his housekeeper told her that the attorney was engaged with a business matter, but would join her shortly. She was shown into his study. Maggie sat in one of the armchairs, her eyes trained on the small box on the shelf above her. If only she could get a better look at it. She would know with certainty whether it was the box she was looking for. But she must be patient, unlike yesterday.

So when Evan Hanley entered his study, he found "Kitty" sitting, patiently awaiting his arrival. He greeted her with a gentle squeeze of her hand and a formal bow of his head. "Lady Hampshire—Kitty—how are you today?"

"I'm well, Evan. Thank you for asking. And you?" she asked.

"Fine. I suppose I should get right to it and not keep you in suspense. I received an answer to my inquiries about your late husband's estate. I'm afraid it isn't good news."

The news was such that he went to a small liquor cabinet and poured her a glass of sherry, in spite of the early hour of the day. "You might want to fortify yourself with this," he said as he handed her the glass.

"What could be so bad?" she asked him.

He sat behind the desk. "Lord Hampshire was deeply in debt, Kitty. It seems he gambled a great deal—and lost a great deal." He paused and let the news sink in.

Maggie took a sip of sherry. "So what you're saying is …" she began.

Evan spared her from having to speculate. "I'm afraid that once his debts are discharged there will be little left for you. The estate will stay in the family, in trust until his son comes of age. It will have to be leased in order to pay his son's expenses in the meantime. But the house in London, and most of his other possessions must be sold to discharge his debts."

"Poor Kitty," Maggie murmured into her glass as she took another sip of sherry. "No wonder he took his own life," she said to Evan.

"Yes, the shame would be terrible for him," he said sympathetically.

"Now only his son has to bear the shame … and me. Of course, I don't have to return to face it."

"Oh?" Evan asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Edward has invited me to stay as long as I like," she told him in a dispirited voice. She could suddenly feel deeply for Kitty and her plight. A wry expression crossed Evan's face, prompting Maggie to ask, "What? What are you not telling me?"

"It's not my place," he began.

"Oh come now, Evan. We've come this far. You may as well tell me all of it," she said more sharply than she'd intended.

"Very well. Edward may be hoping to avail himself of Gerald Soames's fortune—if you two were to marry, that is. You see his grandmother left Collinwood to Judith. Jamison and Nora are provided for, but Edward himself is a man of limited means, receiving only a small allowance and a home at Collinwood."

"So, you're saying his only interest in …" she stumbled for a moment then remembered that she was meant to be Kitty Soames and continued, "in me is pecuniary?"

"Oh, I doubt that," Evan gave her a wicked smile. "If you don't mind my saying so, Kitty, you don't seem terribly concerned about your situation."

"Well, there are some jewels that can be sold. That should provide some temporary relief." Maggie took another sip of sherry and closed her eyes. She needed to focus. Lord and Lady Hampshire's finances were a distraction. She'd come there with a purpose—and for a moment she'd lost sight of it. "Mr. Hanley—Evan, I've heard that you are conversant in the occult," Maggie began. "More than conversant, that you are a practitioner of the dark arts."

Evan registered his surprise at the turn of the conversation with a raised eyebrow. "I could say no, but it's a poorly kept secret—certainly at Collinwood everyone knows. It was one of the things that brought old Mrs. Collins and me together—our mutual interest in the occult."

She pressed forward. "Have you ever held a séance?" Maggie asked.

As he stood, Evan said, "Yes, of course. I suppose you want to contact your late husband."

Maggie's eyes followed him as he paced away from the desk. She drew a deep breath. "No. It's how I came to be here. We were holding a séance. A spirit reached out to me and when I woke, I was here," she said in an as matter of fact tone as she could manage. Evan stopped pacing and met her eyes. "I wish we could contact my husband by holding a séance, but we can't because my husband is not Gerald Soames, it's Quentin Collins."

A smile came to Evan's lips. "Another one! Quentin has another wife." He laughed. But when Maggie didn't join him, he asked, "You're quite serious, aren't you?"

"Yes," Maggie returned with gravity.

"But how? He was married to Jenny, and then …" His voice trailed off. " … Unless … but no, not even Quentin would be so …"

Maggie stopped him short. "I married Quentin, not here, but in 1968. I suspect that you know as well as I do that Quentin did not leave Collinwood. He's still there—locked in the west wing, suspended in time in an I Ching trance." She paused for a moment to gauge his reaction. Then she went on, "He emerged from the trance in 1968, and that's when I met him—and married him."

"So, Quentin is alive in 1968?" Evan tried to make sense of this unexpected information.

"Yes," Maggie told him. "He was beside me at the séance."

Clearly intrigued, the attorney asked, "Who were you attempting to contact?"

"You," she replied.

" _Me_? Whatever for?"

"We need your help—Quentin especially—with an artifact. We believe it belongs to you."

"And that explains your interest in my collection. Which artifact interests you enough to hold a séance to contact me?" he asked. For the first time in their acquaintance, Maggie heard a hard edge to his tone.

"That box," she gestured to the box high on the shelf above them.

Evan laughed heartily. "That box? Surely, you're mistaken. I can assure you that that box is nothing more than an ornament. I'm fond of it, as I picked it up during my travels to the Orient, but it's nothing special."

"You mean it's not the puzzle-box."

"The _puzzle-box_? What do you know about that?"

"It's the reason we held the séance. The box was found among your possessions, in storage at the Great House."

"Impossible. I've kept it safe for many years."

"You must tell me what you know," she pleaded.

Evan stroked his perfectly manicured goatee while he considered his response. At length, he said, "I'll tell you what I know, but …"

Maggie sighed, "But what?"

"I need something from you in exchange," he said flatly.

Maggie tried to prepare herself for what was to come. "What do you want?" she asked in a resigned tone.

"I want to see Judith."

" _Judith_?" Maggie was incredulous. "I've only met her once. She barely comes out of her room."

"So I've been told. Every time I've attempted to see her, I'm told that she's unwell or unwilling. But I _must_ see her, Kitty—and I need your help."

Maggie considered. It was a reasonably small request for what she stood to gain in exchange. And more, of all the things he could have asked of her, all he wanted was to see Judith. It was touching and romantic. "All right. If you tell me about the puzzle-box, I'll take you to see Judith this afternoon. There's one more thing though."

"Go on," Evan prompted her.

"If a séance brought me to this time, do you think holding another might send me back?"

"Perhaps," he said thoughtfully.

"Then we must hold a séance—tonight, while Edward is in town."

"We can do it here, but we'll need a third person to make up the circle," he told her.

"There's no one I can trust," she said.

"Fortunately, there's someone I trust—the librarian in town, Stokes. We have a mutual interest in the occult."

" _Stokes_!" Maggie felt a surge of longing to be back home amongst her friends.

"Do you know him?" Evan asked.

"His descendant—Professor Stokes—is a dear friend of mine and carries on his family interest in the occult." Then Maggie said, "So we have a deal?" She extended her hand.

A bemused expression crossed Evan's face, as though he'd never had a woman offer to shake his hand before, but he shook it and said, "We do."

* * *

London 1879

When Evan Hanley arrived in London, he sensed, rather than knew, it would be his last stop before returning home to Boston. He had traveled the world, and by now his travels no longer served as a salve for his broken heart, which by then had mended. Instead, they fed his desire for adventure and nourished his interest in the occult.

When he arrived in London he felt, if not at home, the kind of familiarity a traveler feels after months of hearing and speaking one's native tongue only occasionally and intermittently. He wasn't home, but he immediately felt comfort there. As always though, there were necessities to be considered, among them a place to stay and way to earn some money.

In keeping with his recent style of travel, he'd found a bedsit not far from the train station. The next day, he'd set out to make some quick money, flogging some of the pieces he'd picked up during his travels. By now, his trunk held far more artifacts, art, and books than clothing. He hated to part with anything, but this was how he'd made his way—at least in part. So when the time came, he selected two pieces he could bear to part with, and went up to the high street in search of suitable markets or shops to try to sell his wares.

It was not chance that led him to the small shop on one of the adjoining lanes. It was an old woman with kind eyes who was tending a stall in the market and thought his pieces were too good to flog in the market. She directed him to the shop. The owner was eccentric she told Evan, but had an eye for the good stuff—and most of all, was willing to pay a fair price for it.

The moment he entered the shop, Evan knew his life would be changed forever.

Over the course of their hour-long conversation, the older man had taken a liking to Evan. Evan, in turn, sensed he'd found, if not a kindred spirit, at least an intriguing and knowledgeable one. In the end, the old shopkeeper did not buy Evan's curios, but offered him a job instead.

Thus Evan began his tenure working as a shop clerk, errand boy—and apprentice—learning everyday that there was more to his employer than met the eye.

One day, the shopkeeper gave him enough money to buy a new suit—a nice one. The first time Evan wore his new suit to the shop, he was given a new and unusual assignment. The old man had closed the shop and together they made their way to a tony London neighborhood. They'd taken tea sitting in the window of a tea-shop. The old man had rebuffed all of Evan's questions about the purpose of the outing. "Isn't tea enough?" the old man asked him.

At last, the old man spied what he was waiting for. Without waiting for the waiter, he put a pound note on the table, and they left—unheard of behavior in such a nice establishment.

An auburn-haired beauty had just emerged from the milliner opposite the tea-shop. The old man, with Evan in tow, followed her, remaining a discrete distance behind. The long plume on her elegant hat was like a signal flag for them to follow. They followed her as she visited shops along the high street. They would stop a few storefronts away and pretend to be transfixed by something in the window. They purchased newspapers to kill time while waiting for her. She maintained a leisurely pace. When Evan grew restive, the old man fixed him with a stern look, or a steadying hand on his arm. At last, she led them to her residence, where she ascended the steps and disappeared inside.

Afterward, back at the objects de arte shop, the old man told Evan that he would pay him well to do as they had done that day. He was to pick up her trail each day, follow her and learn everything he could about her and what happened around her and in her wake, and then report what he had learned. After nearly three weeks of this daily routine, Evan returned to the shop to find the old man in high spirits. For while Evan had followed the woman on her daily rounds, the old man had obtained a rare and valuable object—one that would bring an end to Evan's current occupation.

* * *

"A _demon_?" Maggie asked.

"Yes—in the vernacular—a demon," Evan said.

Maggie sighed. "I don't understand," she said in frustration.

Evan gave her a wicked, unsettling look. "Do you think they have horns and tails?" he asked sarcastically. Maggie's expression told him that she was not amused. He went on, "A demon is nothing more than an entity—in this case, an entity in search of a host. When it's freed from its vessel, it takes over the host. The host's life and desires become the demon's life and desires—and it will stop at nothing to get what it wants. In this case, the puzzle-box is its vessel."

"I still don't understand," Maggie said. "What does it want?"

"That's simple—it wants to be free," Evan began. "The demon is a soul—a spirit, if you will. And it's trapped in its vessel. Imagine, if you will, being trapped in darkness and isolation. It wants to be free— _to live_. But, it's fundamentally selfish and malicious—it can't be restrained by its host—and with each passing day, the demon grows stronger and more intent on being free, more intent on taking over its host's life, until the two separate entities—host and demon—are indistinguishable from one another."

Evan paused before continuing his explanation, "In London, the woman I trailed was on the fringes of fashionable society. She was dissatisfied with forever receiving second tier invitations. The demon emboldened her to begin to climb the social ladder. But on every rung she left behind a betrayed friend or a scorned suitor. An elicit affair was revealed, a suicide ensued, and on and on, until it was cornered and forced back into its vessel."

"But how? How does it do these things?" came Maggie's desperate voice.

"We believe it reaches into people's minds—it sees and manipulates the desires, vanity, fears of others." Evan sought Maggie's eyes and found them guarded and worried. "Perhaps you'll tell me now what your interest is in the box and what it has to do with Quentin."

"I think it might have possessed my friend," Maggie began. When Evan questioned this with a raised eyebrow, Maggie colored deeply and added, "My former fiancé." She went on impassionedly, "He's done something to Quentin—something to make him believe … that he's cursed."

"To make him believe that the werewolf curse has returned?" Evan sought clarification.

"Yes."

"You said the box was found among my possessions."

"Yes," Maggie said. "That's my understanding."

"Where?"

"At Collinwood."

"I see." Evan grew quiet and thoughtful.

Maggie broke into his thoughts by asking, "Evan, now that we know what will happen in 1969, why don't we just destroy the box now— _tonight?_ "

Evan laughed aloud, drawing an irritated look from Maggie. "I'm sorry, my dear. It's just that, of course, it's been tried. It can't be hacked into pieces with an ax, or dissolved in the most potent acid. Once it was thrown into a fire. When the fire burned down to embers, there was the box, not even singed. So now you understand why it's not sitting on a shelf in my study. It can't be destroyed, so it must be protected."

Maggie felt dispirited and disappointed. "So what can we do?"

"It must be driven out of the host, back into its vessel."

Maggie sat for a long moment and considered. "Thank you, Evan. At least now I know what we're dealing with. All I need now is to find my way back to my own time," she added pitifully.

"I'll contact Stokes. We'll conduct the séance this evening, if you think you can get away."

"It's perfect," she said as she stood. "Edward will be in town. I'll sneak out when everyone retires for the evening. And now for my end of the bargain—I'll take you to see Judith."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"I'll sneak you in the same way I plan to sneak out later," she said decisively. "Then, I'll keep watch to ensure you're not disturbed."

"Thank you, Kitty. I suppose that's not your real name," Evan said with a knowing smile.

"No," Maggie responded. "But it's probably best that you continue to call me Kitty. Things are complicated enough as it is."

Then Evan invited "Kitty" to join him for lunch before making their way to the Great House.

* * *

In the time that she had worked at the Great House, Maggie learned many of its idiosyncratic ins and outs. The house was replete with secret passageways and hidden entrances. The entrance she would use to sneak Evan Hanley in to see Judith, she discovered one day playing hide and seek with David and Amy. David, a lifelong resident of the house, always had an advantage—and always used it to frustrate her and Amy's efforts.

On that particular day, she'd found Amy with ease, as she often did. It was either that Amy was not up to the challenge of finding good hiding places in a house full of them, or that she didn't really enjoy the game and thus hastened its end by being easily found. Either way, once Maggie found Amy, the two of them set off in search of David. They found themselves in a rarely visited wing of the house that was home primarily to storage of dusty, discarded furniture and household items. Maggie chanced to pause at the end of one of the corridors. By then her frustration was palpable. She leaned back to rest for a moment—to regroup and mask her frustration for Amy's benefit. The paneling gave way slightly to reveal a small latch and darkness beyond it. Maggie knew better than to try to coaxed a reluctant Amy to follow her into the darkness, but she made sure as they retraced their steps to remember the way they'd come. Then later, when the children were in their rooms for the night, she'd taken a flashlight back to the dark corridor, found the latch, with a flick of her finger, it opened and a dark passage lay before her. It led to a staircase that descended to the lower level of the house, and ultimately to a hidden entrance adjacent to the woods.

* * *

Evan escorted "Kitty" back to the Great House. For her plan to work, they could not arrive in the expected way in his carriage. Instead, she led him back through the woods toward the house. Evan had expected her to wilt from the walk, but she had, in fact, set the pace, and a brisk one at that.

Over lunch and as they walked, Evan peppered "Kitty" with questions about Collinwood in the future. She responded with tantalizing vagaries. She, in turn, wanted to know more about Quentin and what he was like in his own time and milieu. She definitely got the better of the exchange, as Evan was easy with observations about his friend and confidant, as well as his own life and adventures. When he was done, her expression betrayed some unspoken anxiety about the restive man she'd married.

When they reached the boundary of the woods, "Kitty" led Evan across the clearing to the door to the hidden staircase. Finding the door locked, she told him, "Wait here. I'll unlock it from the inside."

During the several minutes she was gone, Evan looked around anxiously, hoping he wouldn't be discovered lurking on the grounds of the estate. As time passed, slowly in his view, he wondered whether Kitty had been waylaid, or whether her entire story and agreement to help was false. But at last, the door opened and the woman he knew as Kitty Soames, Lady Hampshire, peeked out at him.

"I wish I had had the foresight to have a flashlight with me at the séance," she told him inscrutably. "It's pitch dark in here," she said. "We'll need to go slowly and quietly."

He followed her into the darkness. She whispered directions as they went, telling him where the stairs began, and which direction to turn when they reached the landing at the top of the stairs. She found the latch and opened the hidden panel just wide enough to confirm that there was no one around. "Let's go," she told him in an urgent whisper. "This way." She led him down the corridor to where it met the hallway that led to the family quarters, including Judith's suite.

Evan hesitated a moment at Judith's door—his hand poised to turn the knob. Only now did he picture the reception he might receive. Judith was a strong, proud woman, and the fact that she had refused to see him and left his letters of entreaty unanswered told him how things stood between them.

It was the woman who called herself Kitty who gave him the spur he needed. From behind sympathetic eyes, she asked with a cocked eyebrow, "What's the worst that could happen?"

He nodded, turned the knob, and stepped into Judith's room.

Judith, noticeably pale, sat in bed; her unfocused gaze fixed on the corner of her room. The heavy drapes were drawn leaving her in semi-darkness.

"Barnabas?" Evan heard her say softly as he opened the door.

"No, Judith. It's me." He closed the door behind him, and went to sit beside her on the edge of her bed.

Her hand went reflexively to her neck. She pulled the collar of her dressing gown tightly around it. "You shouldn't be here," she hissed.

"I had to come, Judith. I know you're angry—I know you feel betrayed." Evan reached for her hand. Not long ago she would have bestowed it willingly. But now, she flinched and shrank away from him, turning away from his gaze.

He didn't know when he would get another opportunity to see her—to be alone with her—and he was not going to squander it. His hand sought and found hers, drawing it away from her neck. He held her hand and found it cold to the touch. "Judith, you're cold. When I leave, I'll ask Kitty to send the maid up to start your fire. In the meantime, some sunlight will help." He went to the window and drew open the draperies.

Judith turned away from the light and uttered a pitiful noise that just about broke Evan's heart.

* * *

Maggie waited in the hallway outside of Judith's room. Her mind kept drifting back to her conversation with Evan—to the things he'd told her about Quentin—things her husband had never told her about himself. Between her confab with the family attorney and Edward's tart pronouncements, she'd learned more about her husband in a few days in 1897 than she had in months of marriage in 1969.

She would have indulged this train of thought had it not been for the sound of steps approaching.

She turned to meet them. "Edward!" she said loud enough to be heard within Judith's adjacent suite.

"Kitty, what are you doing here?" Edward asked.

"I was looking for you, Edward," she said, again in a deliberately loud voice. "I was hoping we might take a turn around the garden, maybe out to the gazebo and back, and perhaps take tea together before you have to go into town." She hoped Evan had heard her, taken the hint, and would leave in their wake.

Edward colored slightly and inclined his head toward hers. "Why, Kitty, my dear, there is nothing I should like more than that." He offered her his arm.

As she threaded her arm through Edward's, Maggie felt deep pangs of guilt. She was leading him on, giving him false hope. She consoled herself with the thought that if the séance was successful and she was returned to 1969, perhaps Kitty Soames would be returned to 1897, and she and Edward might actually find happiness together. His harsh words about Quentin notwithstanding, Edward deserved some measure of happiness and certainly, if anyone did, it was Kitty.

In the foyer, Maggie retrieved Kitty's short cloak, and Edward helped her into it. Then, arm in arm they made their way through the garden toward the gazebo. It remained one of Maggie's favorite places on the estate. It seemed such a unique feature. For years, growing up on the fringes of the estate's wealthy family, Maggie had imagined generations of Collinwood lovers meeting there for semi-secret trysts. She remembered a time, not long before they married, when she and Quentin ran into each other there quite by chance, and they'd ended up making out—kissing until her lips felt swollen and sore, and still they weren't sated. She missed him so. And now here she was with his _brother_ of all people. She sighed aloud.

"Are you all right, Kitty?" Edward asked.

"Of course. You mustn't worry so much," she chided him gently.

"But I do. Especially after … well," he fumbled for the words. "I envied Gerald, you know," he said at last. "He was a lucky man to have had such companionship as yours. Did he know, I wonder? Did he know what he had in you?"

"People rarely do in the moment," she responded in a neutral tone. By now, they were ascending the gazebo's few steps.

"You are wise beyond your years, Kitty." He went on as though thinking aloud, "He couldn't have known how special you are. If he had, he would never have left you as he did." When he realized what he'd said, he told her, "I'm so sorry, Kitty. I know it must be very raw for you still."

She tried to reassure him, though she found it a particularly thoughtless thing to say. "Never mind, Edward. I suppose I will have to get used to such observations."

"Not on my part—I promise," he pledged passionately.

She pressed his hand gently. "I find I've grown quite tired. Would you mind if we return now and forego tea? I think I would like to rest in my room before dinner," Maggie said, donning her best Lady Hampshire mien. She wasn't Kitty, but she felt strongly for the woman, who would forever be reminded of her husband's suicide—even by the caring, well-intentioned people in her life.

Edward was appropriately chastened. "Of course, Kitty. Whatever you like." He led her back the way they'd come. He opened the front door of the Great House and ushered her in.

Evan Hanley stood in the foyer, catching Maggie completely by surprise.

"Hanley," Edward said in a brusque tone, "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to see Lady Hampshire on a matter of business," the family attorney replied.

"Kitty," Maggie said cordially. "We agreed that you are to call me, Kitty."

Edward behaved as though she hadn't spoken. "Lady Hampshire is tired and was just on her way upstairs to rest. Surely this matter can wait until tomorrow."

Maggie worked hard to mask her annoyance with Edward. "It's quite all right, Edward," she began with an edge in her voice. Then with more patience than she felt, she added, "I should very much like to hear what he has to say."

"It will only take a few minutes," Evan said as much to Edward as to Kitty.

"Well, if you're sure, Kitty," Edward clucked.

"I am. We can speak in the drawing room." To Edward, she added, " _Alone_."

Once inside the drawing room with the doors securely closed, Maggie asked sotto voce, "How is Judith?"

A dark cloud of an expression passed over Evan's face. "Not well, I'm afraid. I hated to leave her, but I must figure out what is to be done to help her—and soon."

Maggie felt selfish turning the subject, but asked, "Why did you stay to see me?"

"I called Stokes. I told him that I needed his help and that I would fill him in later. I must have pricked his curiosity, because he's agreed to come to my house at midnight. You must come then. I can meet you in my carriage at the end of the drive."

"No," Maggie said. "The carriage will be too conspicuous. I'll walk there."

"Through the woods at night?" Evan asked.

"I know the woods well. I'll be careful," she told him.

"Please do," he said. Then he offered her his hand, as she had offered him hers on the previous day.

She took it in both of hers. "I can't thank you enough, Evan, for helping me."

When he took his leave, Maggie made her way from the drawing room, across the foyer, and back upstairs to Kitty's guest room to rest before dinner.

* * *

Angelique had spent the day settling into her suite of rooms in the Great House's east wing. She had arrived mid-morning, shortly after her trunks were delivered, and learned from the housekeeper that Edward was working in the library, Lady Hampshire had not yet come downstairs, and Judith once again kept to her room.

And so, as she unpacked her few possessions—all courtesy of Barnabas and the Collins family name—she contemplated her tenuous hold on the man she loved. She had always loved Barnabas, and she supposed she always would. The past weeks had been the happiest of her life. She had what she wanted at last—Barnabas was hers.

And he'd been happy too—she knew it, she could see it. Not once had he asked to be released from their agreement. She would meet him each evening when he rose—and the night became their time. Not once had he asked her to release him from the curse of vampirism—though they both knew that it was the curse that allowed her to exert control over him. He was content—yes, content—to be hers and hers alone—until now.

Now she found herself and her happiness threatened, by the only person who could pose a threat to her—a person from their past—Josette DuPres. It didn't matter whether or not Kitty Soames was Josette reincarnated. The only thing that mattered was that Barnabas believed her to be.

Angelique hung her green day dress in the wardrobe, then the blue travel suit. As she finished hanging the last of her clothing, she began plotting Lady Hampshire's demise. Her methods were crude, but time-tested. All she needed was one of Kitty's possessions—a handkerchief would do. With something as small as a handkerchief monogrammed with the initials "KS", she would remind Barnabas that she was not to be trifled with. She would show it to him, and he would know that Kitty's fate was in his hands.

She felt a surge of power. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with her shallow breathing. Her eyes opened wide, she looked at herself in the mirror. She had worked too hard to secure Barnabas—and she would fight to keep him.

* * *

When Barnabas rose that evening, slowly lifting the lid to his coffin, he found his servant, Sandor, waiting for him. For a brief moment, he allowed hope to expand in his chest that perhaps Angelique was elsewhere. His eyes met Sandor's and the servant answered the question without it being spoken. "She's upstairs waiting for you in the sitting room," he drawled.

Barnabas released a deflated sigh. Still, this brief window away from his fiancé provided the opportunity he needed to give his servant instructions that were to remain between the two of them. Then he prepared to join Angelique. In the span of a few short days, he had gone from admiring her unique gifts, to feeling suffocated by her. Though nothing had changed, save for his perspective. He became aware how she never left him alone. She had no interests other than being by his side. She had built her life around his.

It was true that during the day while he was confined to his coffin, she had undertaken to see that Sandor attended to the Old House, as he should. Since their engagement, she had superintended a number of repairs, and the house had been thoroughly cleaned. She was, in effect, already the mistress of the Old House.

What's more, she was a favorite in town. When they would dine at the Inn, she commanded respect from all who met them there. He had wondered whether Angelique's _particular_ charms had anything to do with it. But it hadn't mattered, at least not until Kitty Soames arrived and reminded him of who and what he wanted to be. Now anything less would seem like a compromise. It was this thought that creased the edges of his eyes and dragged at the corners of his lips when he met her in the sitting room.

* * *

As they made their way from the Old House to the estate's main residence, Barnabas contemplated his plan. He was silent to the point of seeming sullen.

When she could no longer bear it, Angelique asked, "Is it always going to be this way, Barnabas, now that you've met _her_?"

He played it off, saying, "Met who, Angelique?"

"Don't trifle with me, Barnabas," she returned in a threatening tone.

"I'm not," he said with as much authenticity as he could muster. He sighed but said, "I have pledged myself to you, for this year, and I intend to honor our agreement."

"Very nice words, Barnabas. I hope you mean them."

He stopped there on the path and turned to her. "I do, Angelique. I know that I've not told you as often as I should or in the way that I should, but we are well-suited to one another—you and I."

His words had the desired effect. "Oh, Barnabas," she began—her eyes like beacons behind long lashes. "If only I could believe you."

"You can—you _must_."

"And what of Kitty Soames? Of _Josette_? I've not forgotten what you said."

"Nor have I, but I've come to realize that Josette is but a dream, and you are real." To underscore the point, he took her in his arms. For a moment, the bloodlust surged inside of him and became manifest.

Perhaps sensing this, she broke away from him, and met his guilty eyes with her knowing ones. "Come, Barnabas." She turned and led the way to the Great House.

* * *

When they arrived in the foyer, they found the Great House preternaturally quiet. The drawing room was empty; no one was about.

Barnabas turned to Angelique. "I must go and see my cousin, Judith." A familiar look of disgust passed over the sorceress's face. It was always so, when Barnabas introduced the reality of his blood-slaves into her sanitized version of their lives. "You know I _must_ ," he added for emphasis.

What she thought about his bloodlust had been evident when he held her earlier. It was natural that he should want to sublimate it, as well as sating his need for blood. Still, she found it at once disgusting and humiliating. "Of course," she managed to say in a tone intended to mask it. "I'll be in the drawing room when you return."

Barnabas inclined his head to her then made his way to Judith's suite of rooms. He knocked softly on her door before entering. "Barnabas," she said, as she sat up at once and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "You've come at last."

He went and sat beside her on the bed. She loosened the high collar of her dressing gown to reveal the barely healed puncture wounds, and offered him her neck. For a moment, he struggled against his baser instincts. He could simply look into her eyes and compel her cooperation with his plan, but his hunger—his desire—once unleashed could not be sated with anything less. At the sight of his fangs, Judith's face betrayed both her desire and fear. Then she surrendered herself and he took what he craved.

When he was done, she lay back among the pillows, pale and weak. "I need something more from you, Judith," Barnabas said, as he fixed her with his gaze.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Yes, Barnabas. Tell me what I must do."

* * *

When Barnabas returned to the drawing room, Angelique was impatiently pacing. Her face bore the same expression as when he'd left her. At these times, her distain was never far from the surface. Yet, she had made him so, and she could undo it, if she wanted to. But she did not. The curse represented her best chance of holding onto the man—the creature—she loved.

He began, "You must go to her, Angelique."

"What?"

"You must go to her—to Judith," he said in an impassioned voice. "I fear I may have gone too far. She is weak—very weak."

Angelique's eyes flashed. "Gone too far? Really, Barnabas …"

" _Please_ Angelique," he pleaded. "Please go and sit with her until she recovers her strength."

"And if she doesn't?" she demanded angrily. He turned away from her angry stare. "Very well, Barnabas." She could think of nothing more to say, as she swept out of the room and ascended the stairs.

Barnabas poured himself a sherry and willed himself to be patient. He must wait and be sure that Angelique ascended the stairs; that she had time to arrive at Judith's suite; and that she closed the door to the prying eyes of the household staff. He took a long, deep sip of the sherry. It was hard to be patient knowing that he was moments away from attaining his heart's desire—to be reunited with Josette.

After several minutes had passed, he set aside the half-full glass. He crossed the foyer and opened the doors of the Great House. He searched among the bushes that bounded the front drive until he found it. It was where he had instructed Sandor to leave it for him. It was still wrapped in a soft cloth to protect it from the elements. He retrieved it and headed upstairs to the Great House guest quarters.

* * *

Maggie was buoyed by nervous anticipation. Although the séance was still hours away, if all went well, she'd be home before long.

To kill time, she had already donned one of Kitty's evening dresses—a lovely mauve silk, that showed off her décolletage. Elsie had come and gone—helping "Lady Kitty" with the finishing touches on her dress and refreshing her hair for the evening. All in all, it seemed like a great deal of effort. With Edward away for the evening, it was likely to be only Barnabas, Angelique, and her, unless Judith felt up to joining them. It would no doubt be a dull and awkward affair. Suddenly she realized that she wished Edward would be there. As it was, she would have to exert herself to make small talk until she could excuse herself, and then sneak out to meet Evan and Stokes at midnight.

She stood looking out of the window on the grounds of the great estate below. _Stay focused on your goal_ , she told herself. _Stay focused on the séance, on going home._

A soft knock on her door broke into her thoughts. Believing it must be Elsie returning, she answered, "Come in." She turned and was taken aback to see Barnabas stepping through the doorway. "Barnabas!" Her eyes were wide with surprise. Seeing him now, like this, she marveled at how much he was like the Barnabas from her own time—the way his eyes likewise made her feel uneasy.

He softly closed the door. "Kitty, I had to see you —to speak to you alone."

"What is it?" Maggie asked. "What do you want?"

"Kitty, I must speak to you."

Maggie once again donned her Lady Hampshire countenance. "This is highly irregular, Mr. Collins. What would people think if they knew you were here in my room?"

"I don't care."

"Well, I do," she began.

But Barnabas cut her off. "I've come to give you something— _a gift_ ," he said, stepping further into the room.

Maggie took a retreating step, but then froze. She noticed he held something in his hands—a small object, wrapping in a swathe of cloth. She relented. "What is it?" she asked, trying to convey strength, but finding her words laced with fear.

"Only this," he said as he peeled open the cloth to reveal Josette's music box.

Maggie's breath caught in her throat. Disbelief suffused her face. "What is it?" she cried. "Why do I feel so strange?" She was overwhelmed by something she could not name.

"You recognize it, don't you? Because it is yours, _Josette_. Long have I waited for this moment, and now here you are at last—my very own Josette—reborn as Lady Hampshire."

Maggie found she could not move—something held her back. It was not fear. It was something else—something just out of reach of her consciousness.

Barnabas approached her, the cloth falling away as he did. He pressed the box into her hands.

Maggie shook her head slowly. "I … I don't understand."

"You will, my love. You will, _Josette_ ," Barnabas told her passionately. He put his hands over hers and opened the box. The music began to play.

Maggie closed her eyes and the music filled her mind. Then she felt it, and she knew she'd felt it before. "No," she said. " _No!_ " She shook her head violently. _That music!_ The memory of it flooded Maggie's mind.

She could hear Barnabas saying "Please Josette." But his words shattered against the notes of the music. She dropped the music box. It clattered to the floor and rolled away from them. Her body moved of its own volition, pushing past Barnabas. Her quaking hands found the doorknob and she rushed into the hallway. Barnabas followed, calling, "Please Josette, come back to me."

Panic drove her body forward. At the end of the hallway, she turned down the corridor that housed the family's rooms. Her footfall was naturally light and quick, but his feet fell heavily without regard to the other occupants.

Maggie kept pushing forward until she found herself on the landing above the foyer. She gathered the skirt of Kitty's dress in her hands and fled down the stairs. Barnabas kept pace a few feet behind, following her out into the night.

A stiff breeze now blew—a storm was threatening. Maggie could hear thunder rumbling in the background, but the tinkling of the music-box continued in the forefront of her brain—nothing could drive it out—not the sound of the thunder, or Barnabas's voice calling out not to Kitty, but to _Josette_.

Maggie ran wildly into the woods. Her breath came in gulps—rapid and short. Her feet led her through the woods until she emerged into a clearing—at the bluffs of Widows' Hill. There was nowhere left to run. She stopped and turned back toward the woods. Barnabas emerged a step behind her.

The breeze picked up and slashed Maggie's tendrils across her face. The clap of thunder was closer now—still she could not drive the sound of the music-box from her mind. She let go of the folds of Kitty's dress. The lovely mauve fabric was crushed from her grip. Her hands went to her ears, covering them as she tried to obliterate the sound of the music.

Barnabas held out his hand to her. "Come to me, Josette, and you _are_ my Josette. The music has touched your soul. Tell me you feel it—tell me you are my Josette."

Maggie opened her mouth to respond—her mind awhirl. But before she could speak, a voice broke through the night. It could be heard above the thunder and the crashing surf on the shore below the bluffs.

" _Your Josette_?" the voice said in a chiding tone. "Does your Josette know what you are, Barnabas?" Angelique emerged from the woods into the clearing.

"Please Angelique," Barnabas pleaded.

"Did you think there would be no consequences for this betrayal?" Angelique asked, her eyes shining bright in the dark night, her blond curls luminous even on a moonless night.

"She's done nothing," Barnabas pleaded. "Let her go in peace, and I will stay with you."

"Was a year so much to ask, Barnabas?" Angelique asked.

"I will stay with you, Angelique," Barnabas told her.

Angelique ignored him. Her eyes fixed on "Kitty". "Do you know what he is?" Angelique asked her. "I will show you _not_ what he is," she continued, "but what he will turn you into."

Angelique raised her hands, and an image appeared before them. "He would take you as his bride," Angelique intoned. "Make you as he is," she went on. From the darkness an image was revealed. It was a woman. She wore a wedding dress—long and white in the style of the times, high-necked, with tiers of white lace. Then as the image became clear, the bride drew back the veil. Maggie could see that the face was hers. Two rivulets of blood soaked through the collar of the dress. Dark circles ringed her eyes—and they were dead, devoid of life and vitality.

"Stop it, Angelique," Barnabas cried out.

But she did not stop. "Look at her, Kitty." Maggie found she could not tear her eyes away. The image opened its mouth, as though to speak—two fangs protruded and dripped with blood.

"Stop!" Maggie cried out at last.

"Look at her, Kitty. This is the fate he would choose for you. This is the fate he envisions for his precious _Josette_ ," Angelique told her in a fierce, angry tone.

" _Please stop_!" Maggie cried again.

Angelique's bitter laugh rang through the night air. "Look at her, my dear Kitty. This is what he offers you."

Maggie took a few faltering steps backward. She pressed her eyes shut to blot out the image before her. The sound of the music-box still formed a mental soundtrack to the witch's cruelty. She covered her ears with her hands in a vain attempt to silence it. "No!" she cried out as she turned away from the apparition. She felt the soft ground at the edge of the bluff crumbling beneath her feet, and saw the rocks below Widows' Hill rising up to the greet her. " _No!_ "


	10. Chapter 10

A séance has been held at the Great House on the Collinwood Estate. Four people came together to seek information about a mysterious artifact. As a result, Maggie Collins was cast backward in time to the year 1897. There she came face-to-face with a fate meant for another. For the residents of Collinwood in 1897 believe her to be Kitty Soames, and her remarkable resemblance to Josette DuPres has led her to Widows' Hill to meet the same fate as that woman did more than a century before.

* * *

" _No!_ " Maggie screamed. Her body shook visibly; there were tears in her eyes.

"Maggie, are you all right? What happened?" came Quentin's concerned voice.

She was back at Collinwood, back in the drawing room. In a moment, she began to make sense of her surroundings. Quentin, Julia, and Professor Stokes were there. Their hands were still on the table. _The séance!_ They were holding a séance. She took them in with her eyes. She scanned the room—the drawing room was modern. It was her Collinwood—it was the Collinwood of 1969. She was home—back in her own time.

Her tears quickly subsided and her entire countenance shifted. " _You knew_!" she spat angrily at them. "You all knew!" She stood. Her face was pale and she trembled slightly. The circle was broken. She took a few halting steps away from the table.

"Knew what, Maggie?" Julia was the first to recover from Maggie's shockingly accusatory tone.

"You all knew about Barnabas," she continued. "You know what he is, what he _does_." Now fully taking onboard what she'd experienced, she added, " _What he did to me_!"

"Maggie …" Quentin began, but fueled by anger and shock, Maggie turned on her heel and fled through the drawing room doors, across the foyer, and out into the night.

All three were on their feet now. "Perhaps it's best to give her some time to collect herself," Professor Stokes said, seemingly to Quentin.

Quentin turned on him angrily, "When I want advice on how to handle my wife, I'll ask someone who's experienced the state of marriage. If you'll excuse me, I need to see to her," he added then followed Maggie out of the Great House.

* * *

Quentin found Maggie where he suspected she'd be—still on the grounds of the Great House, supporting herself against the railing of the odd gazebo. "Maggie," he began again as he had moments before.

She turned to face him. Her face was pale. He'd never seen her look so pale—but her expression was resolute. "You should have told me."

"I offered …"

She cut him off. "No—no, you didn't."

"You said you wanted to leave the past in the past and look forward. I wanted that too."

"Do you want to know how I found out?" she asked, fury in her eyes. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as her words and breaths came out in short, percussive gulps. "He … he gave me Josette's music box. Well, not me." Her hand went to her head, as she tried to recount what happened. "He thought I was Lady Hampshire and that I was somehow a reincarnation of Josette. He placed Josette's music-box in my hands." She held out her hands and looked as them as though they were somehow sullied. "And when I held it, I knew I'd held it before … and when he opened it, and the music … oh, Quentin …" The fear and anger threatened to overtake her, but she went on. "The music brought it all back to me. He kidnapped me— _Barnabas kidnapped me_ —he tried to remake me as Josette, and when I … when I resisted, he locked me away."

She began to tremble, and at last gave in to her tears. "I ran from him. I found myself on Widows' Hill, and there, Angelique showed me the future Barnabas envisioned for me—for Kitty, _for Josette_. And then the bluffs gave way, and I … I fell. Quentin, I fell!" The words tumbled out, punctuated by Maggie's sobs.

"I don't understand," Quentin began. "What did you see during the séance?"

" _See_? I've been gone for _days_."

"Maggie," he said gently. "Only a few minutes passed. You were in a trance …"

"No," she cut him off. "I was there—in 1897 for days—right here at Collinwood. I met Edward and Judith, Jamison and Nora, and _Evan Hanley_. I lived it—I lived her life—Kitty Soames's life."

He took her in his arms and held her close. "It's all right, Maggie. You're here. You're safe. I won't let anyone hurt you, I promise."

She pulled back and sought his eyes with hers. "Kitty—Lady Hampshire," she said softly. "I _died_ her death. If I'm here now, Kitty must be …" Maggie's voice broke. "Kitty must be dead on the rocks below Widows' Hill." He pulled her close again. He kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. He held her until her gentle quaking began to subside. "Poor Edward. He'll be devastated."

" _Edward?_ " Now Quentin pulled back and studied her face. "Edward and Kitty Soames?"

"Her husband died—committed suicide," Maggie said softly.

"Gerald must have left her well situated, if Edward was interested in her," Quentin said in a derisive tone.

"I believe Edward genuinely cares … cared for her," Maggie sniffed in response.

When her tears threatened to return, he said, "It's over now, Maggie. You're home. You're safe."

"No—no one is safe, but I learned a great deal that will help us."

"Come," he said, taking her hand and leading her back toward the house. "You must tell us everything you learned."

Maggie surprised Quentin by stopping mid-motion. He turned back to face her. "What is it? What's wrong?" he asked.

"I don't want anything to do with Julia," she said emphatically. "She was complicit in what happened to me—she had to have been. Every time I would start to remember what happened to me, Julia would intervene. Her so-called treatments weren't designed to help me; they were to help _Barnabas_ —to prevent my memory from returning. What a fool I've been!"

"Maggie, you should at least give her a chance to explain."

"Why are you defending her? She put Barnabas's wellbeing above mine. I was her _patient_ ," she said in exasperation. "What kind of doctor … what kind of psychiatrist would do such a thing?"

"Maybe she was trying to protect you," he ventured.

"Protect me?"

"What do you think Barnabas would have done if your memory had returned?" Quentin's hand found her cheek, and tilted her face toward his. A petulant scowl greeted him. "At least give her a chance to explain."

"Fine," she said in a tone that matched her expression.

Quentin put his arm around her shoulder and led her back into the house.

* * *

When Maggie and Quentin returned to the drawing room, they found Julia and Professor Stokes sitting side-by-side on the couch, sipping sherry and speaking in hushed tones.

A long silence ensued as Quentin poured Maggie a stiff brandy, and then one for himself. Maggie sat in the armchair beside the fireplace; Quentin stood sentry beside her. She took a large sip of brandy into her mouth, let it expand then slowly swallowed it.

When she was ready, she began, "The séance transported me to Collinwood in 1897. I somehow changed places with—or became Kitty Soames, Lady Hampshire. And I lived her life for days."

"Extraordinary," the professor interjected.

"She fell to her death on Widows' Hill. And I died her death," Maggie said with appropriate gravitas.

"You don't know that for sure, Maggie," Quentin said to reassure his wife.

For the first time since she'd come out of the trance, Maggie's expression softened. "I know you're trying to make me feel better, but I don't see how she could have survived." She pushed back against her tears. She went on, "I learned a great deal about what's happening to Joe … and to Quentin."

Maggie selectively recounted her time in 1897, focusing on what she'd learned about the puzzle-box.

"How did it come to be here at Collinwood?" Julia asked.

"Evan didn't know," Maggie said sharply in response, still wearing her irritation on her sleeve. "He said he was charged with protecting it and it was safe." She turned to Quentin, "But I think he and Judith were close. Perhaps he left his possessions to her, or perhaps he died unexpectedly and she, or Edward, claimed his possessions. He had no family to speak of."

"Yes, perhaps," Quentin murmured in response. "And tell me, how was Judith?"

Maggie shook her head. "Not well, I'm afraid. I saw very little of her. She keeps to her room mostly." Then she looked pointedly at Julia. "Barnabas is the only one she looks forward to seeing."

Julia narrowed her eyes, and a dark expression crossed her face, but she said nothing.

"And Jamison?" Quentin asked.

"He was fine—and so much like David," Maggie said. "But I—Kitty—didn't interact much with him and Nora."

"No, I don't suppose she would," Quentin observed mildly.

"She was a governess too, you know—Kitty, I mean. Before she married Gerald, she was the family governess," Maggie said, sadness again overtaking her. She stood and found Quentin's eyes with hers. "I'm tired. I'd like to go home—I've missed it."

"We should make plans," Stokes said.

"Tomorrow. Let's reconvene tomorrow after Maggie's rested," Quentin told him.

The professor nodded and lifted his large frame from his seat on the couch.

"Would you give Julia and me a few minutes alone please?" Maggie asked.

Quentin started to object, but Maggie's expression told him that she would brook no opposition. "Sure," he said, giving Julia a significant look.

Once he and Professor Stokes were out of the room, and the doors were closed, Maggie turned to Julia, but before she could speak, Julia began, "I was trying to protect you, Maggie."

Maggie folded her arms across her chest and gave her friend a withering look. "Even if I believe you Julia, aren't you forgetting something?"

"Oh?" the psychiatrist said. "Like what? What am I forgetting?"

"Willie Loomis is being treated at Windcliff for something he didn't do."

"Maggie," the doctor began.

"You need to get him out, Julia— _tomorrow_."

"Maggie, how can I? What am I supposed to do, show up and announce that he's suddenly cured?"

"It was easy enough for you and Barnabas to arrange for him to be committed."

"That's because he still feels quite guilty," Julia pushed back. "As long as he behaves as if he's responsible for what happened to you …"

Maggie cut her off brusquely, "Well, I don't care how you do it, only that you do."

"And if I can't?"

"The Collins name still means something around here—and at Windcliff, and as I've learned there are always options available to people of means. Or maybe my memory will suddenly come back, and I'll have to tell the world who really hurt me."

"Are you threatening me, Maggie?"

"No, because I trust you to take care of this. But you should know, Julia, that I won't let Willie continue to pay for something Barnabas did."

* * *

Later that night, Quentin and Maggie lay in their bed in the second floor bedroom of the old farmhouse. Quentin held Maggie, but sleep eluded them.

"I've missed this," Maggie said.

"I'm having a hard comprehending that in your mind you've been away for days," he responded.

"What happened here during the séance?" she asked, in a now-sleepy voice.

"You went into a trance. You warned us that there was danger. Then the candles blew out and the room was pitch black. 'We mustn't break the circle,' the professor warned us. 'For _Maggie's_ sake.' It was the only reason I didn't end it at once. You continued to murmur about there being danger. Then you cried out 'No!' and you were back with us. You know the rest."

"That's it? That's all? How odd that while only a few moments passed for you, I spent so much time at Collinwood— _your_ Collinwood, with your friends and family," she said. Then she added, "I learned a lot about you."

"Oh?" He narrowed his eyes; a worried look came to his features.

"Evan told me a lot about you," she said, but didn't elaborate. "I think he really misses you."

"Evan was a good friend," Quentin said.

Maggie found comfort in the sound of her husband's voice resonating through his chest to her ear that rested on it.

"I suppose he told you about Jenny."

"Yes, and Laura too—how you followed her across the world and caused the rift with Edward," she said softly.

"It was along time ago, Maggie. I've changed—the curse and the I Ching changed me."

"Um hm," she purred.

"I paid dearly for what happened to Jenny, and I learned from it. I'm happy here, Maggie, and I would never do anything to jeopardize what we have together," he said as though convincing her was somehow necessary.

When she didn't respond he snuck a peek at her face, pulling her dark veil of hair aside to reveal her sleeping face.

* * *

The next day was as normal a day as one could expect at Collinwood. Quentin went to work at the mill as usual; Maggie went to the Great House.

Professor Stokes had called before she left the farmhouse that morning to check on her, and make arrangements to meet later that day as they'd agreed the previous night. After his solicitous inquiries, and her copious reassurances, they'd agree to meet that evening at 9:00 at the professor's home in Collinsport. That would give him time to conduct further research on demonic possession, and her time to have an early dinner at the inn with Quentin.

Throughout the day, conflicting emotions warred within her. She was truly happy and appreciative of being back in her own time—back at her own Collinwood. Even David and Amy remarked on her cheery countenance. Still, she knew that beneath the veneer of happiness, the darkness still lurked. Now she knew that yet another dark presence—a new malevolence was at work in Collinwood—and that that presence now took the form of friendly, trusted Joe Haskell.

If she were honest, she would admit that putting the demonic possession of Joe in the forefront of her mind, kept at bay both the disturbing truth she'd learned about her own kidnapping, and the trauma of experiencing Kitty's death on Widows' Hill.

When their lessons were done, David had gone to his room to play until dinnertime, but Amy had stayed close by Maggie, trailing after her wherever she went. Maggie had taken a change of clothes with her so that she could go into Collinsport without returning home to dress for dinner.

Amy had followed Maggie to one of the guest bedrooms where Maggie had left her dress and makeup bag. "Can I watch you do your hair and makeup?" she asked.

"Sure," Maggie said.

"Why aren't you using your old room near mine?" Amy asked.

"I like this room with this old-fashioned vanity," Maggie told her. She couldn't explain that she had once occupied the room in 1897 and still felt strangely drawn to it.

As Maggie brushed her hair, she asked Amy, "Wouldn't you rather play with David?"

"No," Amy told her. "I like watching you. Besides, I'm going to miss you when you're gone."

" _Gone?_ " Maggie's voice was shrill.

"David says it's only a matter of time now that you're married to Quentin. You won't be our governess anymore."

Maggie was quiet. What could she say? She didn't want to lie to Amy—especially given the disappointment she suffered at the hands of her absentee brother. At least Joe's disinterest in reconnecting with his young cousin was now explained.

"What do you think?" Maggie asked her young charge. "A ponytail like this?" She gathered her hair at the nape of her neck. "Or loose."

"I like it when you put the top up, but wear the rest down," Amy said.

"Then that's how I'll wear it."

As Maggie finished her toilette, she was aware that Amy was prattling on. From time to time, she would pull her mind back to the child, but mostly her mind was looking ahead. When her hair and makeup were done, Maggie went into the small adjoining dressing room and slipped on her dress.

"You look beautiful, Maggie," Amy told her when she emerged from the dressing room.

"Thank you, Amy."

When they descended the stairs, Amy was still staying close to Maggie. Maggie retrieved her coat from the entryway and returned to the foyer for her handbag. Just then the doors to the drawing room opened and Carolyn emerged.

"Carolyn!" Maggie was genuinely happy to see her friend. Then added, "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

Carolyn laughed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm certain it hasn't been that long."

"I wish I could stay and get caught up, but …" Maggie began before Amy cut in.

"Maggie has a date."

"Oh?" Carolyn asked with a wicked smile and a raised eyebrow.

"Yes," Maggie confirmed. "I'm meeting Quentin for dinner at the Inn. Then we're having drinks with Professor Stokes and Julia afterward."

"You two sound like an old married couple," Carolyn laughed but Maggie winced inside. "And what have you been up to, Amy?"

"She's been helping me with my toilette. Haven't you, Amy?" Maggie offered. To Amy she said, "I don't want you to be at loose-ends now that I'm leaving. Perhaps you should go and find David now."

Carolyn sized up the situation. "I have a better idea. Why don't we go find a game to play—just the two of us?"

"There is one game that David will _never_ play with me," Amy said with an unselfconscious grin.

"Great—let's go get it." Carolyn took Amy's hand, and received a grateful parting smile from Maggie.

* * *

When Quentin and Maggie arrived at Professor Stokes's home shortly after 9:00, the professor welcomed them, and assumed the role of genial host. "Julia has been detained at Windcliff, but should be here soon," he said as he took Maggie's coat.

While they settled themselves on the couch, the professor went to his liquor cabinet. When he returned, he brought a tray with four drinks, one presumably for the late-arriving Julia. He set the tray on the coffee table then handed Maggie one of the small, stemmed glasses. "Since you've already eaten, I opened a bottle of port. I hope you enjoy it." To Quentin, he handed the lone brandy snifter among the drinks, "I believe you're a brandy man."

"Yes, thank you," Quentin said, taking the proffered glass.

Maggie ended the niceties by asking, "Did you know about Barnabas, Professor?"

Stokes lowered himself into an armchair opposite her. "I suspected rather than knew," he said. "In saying so, I'm not trying to split hairs or avoid responibility. At first, he drew my suspicions, but in the end, I ignored the oddities and eccentricities that ordinarily fuel my curiosity. And then, of course, the strange occurrences abated."

"I see," Maggie said, finding it easier to accept the professor's explanation than Julia's. She took a sip of the port. "The port is excellent," she said.

"I'm so pleased you think so," he said. His words were accompanied by a knock at the door. He rose and a moment later ushered Julia Hoffman into his sitting room.

Quentin welcomed her. "Good evening, Julia."

Maggie offered her a stiff, formal nod of her head.

Professor Stokes took over. "Now that we're all assembled, we must decide how to proceed. I've spent the day pouring over texts on demonic possession," he said, indicating a pile of books on a desk in the far corner of the room. "It seems to me that there is only one solution—the demon must be exorcised from its host."

"Well, that's good news, isn't it?" Maggie said.

"It is, isn't it Eliot?" Julia echoed. "All we need to do is bring Joe to you, and you can conduct the exorcism."

"While I'm flattered by your confidence in me, I'm afraid it's not that simple," the professor demurred.

"It never is," Quentin added in a sarcastic tone.

The professor turned to Maggie. "You told us that Mr. Hanley apprenticed for a powerful practitioner of the dark arts—a sorcerer of sorts."

"Yes," Maggie said.

"And it was he who forced the demon out of its host and back into its vessel," the professor continued.

"Yes."

"I fear that I'm ill-equipped to take on a demon."

Maggie was confused and disappointed. She wore it on her face. "But Evan also said that it was a _minor_ demon."

"But even a minor demon is a formidable opponent. It's true that I have performed successful exorcisms—of discontented spirits or displaced souls. I'm sorry, my dear, only a powerful sorcerer will do," the professor told his dejected friend.

"Or a powerful _sorceress_ ," Quentin said.

"No, Quentin. There must be another way," Julia said.

"Like what? Place a classified ad—'powerful sorcerer wanted to exorcise an unwelcome demon'," Quentin returned.

"Angelique cannot be trusted, Quentin. You know that as well as I," Julia said flatly.

" _Angelique_?" Maggie asked. The witch's voice and laugh were still fresh in her mind.

"She is powerful—she cured me of the curse. And she will come if I summon her," Quentin concluded confidently, drawing a pointed look from his wife.

"I daresay she would," Professor Stokes said. "But there's no need. I am up to the task."

"Even if she does respond to your summons," Julia countered, "what's in it for her? What do you have to offer her? Or do you think she'll do it out of the goodness of her heart? Because, frankly, she doesn't have one."

Julia's words hung in the air, before Maggie broke the silence. "If you can summon her, I have something to offer her."

"Oh?" Julia asked. "What?"

"Leave that to me," Maggie returned in a curt tone. "When can we do it?" she asked.

"Tomorrow evening, if you'll be ready then," the professor said. "Quentin?"

"Yes, I'd like to be there," Quentin said in a world-weary voice. "I may be useful, if persuasion is necessary."

"Very well. Shall we meet at the Old House at midnight?" the professor asked.

"The Old House?" Julia was incredulous.

"Yes," Stokes said soberly. "For a variety of reasons, the Old House is perfect."

"Oh?" Julia narrowed her eyes.

"I can enumerate the reasons, if you think it necessary," Stokes began.

Julia emitted a deep sigh, but relented. "Fine."

"A toast to our success." The professor raised his glass in a futile attempt to cut the tension. The others followed suit, but each harbored reservations that remained unspoken.

* * *

That night, elusive dreamscapes flitted across Maggie's mind. Deep sleep eluded her, so she settled for dozing and waking by turns. Predawn darkness still blanketed the farm when she decided to get up. Quentin lay asleep beside her, his right arm draped across her. He stirred as she gently extricated herself, but then burrowed further into his pillow and went back to sleep.

In the semi-darkness, she found a pair of slacks, a pullover sweater, and a pair of sneakers. She changed as quietly as she could, then made her way downstairs. She had intended to curl up in the armchair and wait until the sun was up—until Quentin was awake—before undertaking the task before her. But she found an overwhelming sense of restlessness animated her. She could not sit still and she no longer wanted to wait. She wanted to move—to act.

She found a flashlight, grabbed her pea-coat, then crept out of the house and into the woods. With luck, she would get to the Old House and back before Quentin woke.

As the Old House came into view, Maggie encountered something unexpected. All the feelings of foreboding that she'd experienced suddenly came into sharp focus. Her subconscious had been telling her all along—it was there, she just couldn't access it—until now. Now she remembered—the sound of the music, the feel of the clothes, and the fear—above all the fear. She had come all this way without thinking how it would feel to return to the place where she was held captive—to the place where Barnabas tried to wipe away all trace of Maggie Evans, and replace her with Josette DuPres.

For a moment, a wave of unnamable emotions swept over her. She should feel emboldened knowing that, for the moment, she was beyond Barnabas's reach. She closed her eyes, to steady herself, but the images kept coming—Josette's room, the dress that Barnabas insisted she wear, and the cell where he locked her away when she wouldn't submit. She should have woken Quentin and asked him to come with her, she realized. But she was here now—and the only way to conquer her fear was to face it.

She willed her feet to move and kept up a quick pace. Before long she reached the Old House. She approached the front door and to her surprise, she found it unlocked. She would have broken a window to gain access, had she needed to, but instead the door gave way at her touch. The rusty hinges moaned the door open.

The house, which was largely vacant, save for those times that Julia visited, smelled musty. The pungent, yet comforting, aroma of fireplace fires and burnt candles permeated the air. Maggie's stomach seized as she convinced her legs to climb the stairs. As she approached Josette's room, more memories flooded back—not just broad outlines of what happened, but details and discrete moments.

She stepped inside and looked around the room. It had to be there. _How_ _had it transcended the years?_ she wondered. She pushed that thought aside. It _had_ transcended the years—that was all that mattered. She set about searching the room. For all of its ornate furnishings, there were few places it could be—and Josette's trousseau chest seemed the most likely place. It was there that she began her search, carelessly pulling out Josette's perfectly preserved clothing and accessories, leaving them in a heap on the floor beside the chest.

Her hunch proved to be right. It was there at the bottom of the trunk. As soon as she saw the small velvet wrapping, she knew she'd found it. She took it from the chest, feeling its contours beneath the velvet fabric. _How had it found its way home again_? Maggie wondered about the small music-box. Barnabas must have retrieved it from Kitty's room, after ... after Widows' Hill. It was the only explanation.

" _Maggie_? What … what are you doing here?"

* * *

Maggie nearly dropped the small ornate music-box at the sound of her name. Maggie turned to face the familiar voice. "Willie! I could ask you the same thing."

"Julia got me out of Windcliff yesterday."

"And she brought you here?" Maggie asked, incredulity in her eyes and voice.

"I … I got nowhere else to go, Maggie. I can't stay in town. Everyone there thinks I …" his voice trailed off. Then he added, "And I'm not exactly welcome at the Great House."

Maggie suddenly felt guilty. She hadn't thought about what would happen to Willie when he was released from Windcliff, only that his being there was a miscarriage of justice. "I see," she said at last.

"And you, what are you … what are you doing here, Maggie?" Willie asked nervously. He pulled his hair back with a jittery hand. "I heard a noise."

"I was looking for something. I didn't know anyone was here." Her eyes involuntarily dropped to the small package in her hands.

"Don't open it, Maggie," Willie told her urgently, taking a step toward her.

"Don't worry, Willie. I won't." She added for emphasis, "I have no intention of opening it."

"Then what do you want it for?" Willie asked, wringing his hands.

"So much has happened since you've been away. I can't explain it all right now," Maggie deflected. "How did Julia get you released?"

"I don't know. She wasn't exactly in a chatty mood, if you know what I mean."

"Well, you didn't belong there in the first place, Willie. I remember everything now and I'm sorry I didn't remember sooner. I could have told them you didn't do it."

The anxious young man turned away from her. "I should've done more to help you, Maggie, but I couldn't." There were tears in his voice.

Maggie approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You did what you could, Willie. I understand that now."

"And Barnabas? Julia said he's not here."

"I don't know where Barnabas is, but he's not here. He can't hurt you anymore, Willie," she said.

He nodded his head. "I know you're right. I … I'm just not ready to face him."

"It's okay. You won't have to. I have to go now, Willie. Did Julia tell you that I got married? I have to get home before my husband wakes up and gets worried about me. We live at the old Peabody Farm."

Maggie moved toward the door. Willie followed her out the door. "Do you want me to see you home? It's still dark out—the sun is just starting to come up."

"It's okay, Willie. I'm not afraid anymore. I told you—things have changed since you've been away."

Willie accompanied Maggie back through the Old House and down the stairs to the front door. As he opened the door for her, he said, "Don't forget, Maggie, don't open that thing." He pointed to the velvet wrapped object in her hands.

Maggie smiled. "Don't worry, Willie. I won't."

* * *

Later that evening, Maggie and Quentin arrived at the Old House and found Julia waiting for them. "Come in," she said as though welcoming them to her home. They followed her into the sitting room. The Old House, in contrast to the newer Great House, was more compact and organized in the style of an 18th century manor house. Thus the sitting room was much smaller than the drawing room at the Great House, and the fact that Barnabas had restored it to its 18th century glory meant it was now lit by candlelight alone. A fire burning in the fireplace provided the room's only warmth.

"Eliot—Professor Stokes will be here shortly," Julia continued.

"And Willie?" Maggie asked.

"I sent him to bed," Julia replied as though speaking about a child. "It's been a long day. We spent a good deal of time talking about what comes next for him. But in the meantime, I've asked him to stay on here as the caretaker."

The stain of a blush crossed Maggie's cheeks. She still felt guilty about Willie—about the time he spent in Windcliff and about how he was released without any plan or thought for his future. Poor Willie was forever a pawn at Collinwood. Even Maggie had used him as a tool in response to her anger with Julia.

Quentin spoke up. "That seems like a reasonable solution."

"Yes, and the house does need looking after," Julia said.

An awkward moment ensued before Maggie said, "Julia, I think we should clear the air."

"Yes," Julia drawled. "But not now. We have much to accomplish tonight." She tapped into her psychiatry training and continued, "I'd like to believe we can still work together on a common goal, Maggie."

"Yes, I'd like that too," Maggie said, her anger already dissipating. Seeing Willie released but set adrift had tempered her sense of knowing what was right.

Maggie crossed the room to warm herself in front of the fireplace. They had pinned all of their hopes on this. What if it failed? Maggie felt Quentin's hands on her shoulders. He bent down to whisper in her ear. "It's going to be all right."

A knock at the door signaled Professor Stokes's arrival. He entered the sitting room looking serious to the point of grim. He carried a briefcase that contained what he described as an occult toolkit—a large wooden cross, a silver pentagram, a vial of holy water, a wooden stake with a mallet, and several black candles. It was the latter he would need this night. He set the case on the table and retrieved the candles. Then he replaced the candles in one of the sitting room candelabras with the black ones. He and Julia chatted softly, just out of earshot from Maggie and Quentin who still stood together beside the fire.

When he felt ready to proceed, the professor drew a deep, audible breath and said, "I am ready to begin."

Quentin gave Maggie's shoulders a reassuring squeeze and then drew her a few steps away from the fireplace. The professor approached and placed the candelabra on the mantelpiece. Then he lit the black candles as Julia looked on—an unhappy crease furrowed her brow.

Professor Stokes positioned himself in front of the fireplace. He closed his eyes and spread his arms wide. He began in a rich voice, "Angelique, I summon you. Come to me. Angelique, I summon you. Hear me and answer my call. I summon you—come from the darkness into the light … into the light of the black candles … come forth …"

Julia's eyebrows arched as she watched Stokes enter a trance-like state. "Hear me and answer my call. I summon you—come from the darkness into the light … into the light of the black candles … heed my call and come to me," Stokes intoned. His three companions still looked on, but Stokes had entered a solitary place in his mind, with a single focus—calling forth the sorceress, Angelique. When she did not appear, he drew a deep breath and began anew with added force in his voice. "I summon you—come from the darkness into the light … into the light of the black candles. Heed my call—heed my _command_ and come to me." His voice seemed to fill the room, touching every corner with his vibrato. "I _command_ you to come to me."

Now the flames sprang to life. The fire in the fireplace roared and flames threaded up the flue. Every candle in the room sparked and jumped at once. The flames of the black candles reached impossible heights then died away, totally consuming the candles. Only puddles of molten black wax remained.

A woman's laugh reverberated through the room. Maggie covered her ears, turned, and sought Quentin's embrace. Quentin held his trembling wife and whispered in her ear, "Let's go. I'll take you away from here."

Maggie shook her head in response. "I have to stay and face her."

The laughter died away. The still disembodied voice asked, "Who dares to command me?"

"I do," the professor said in a steady voice. "Timothy Eliot Stokes commands you."

"A _Stokes_ commands me?" she asked as she materialized at last. Emerging from the fireplace flames, Angelique appeared. She wore a fashionable green suit, over a floral blouse. Her blond hair was pulled into chignon.

For a moment, Stokes felt in danger of becoming besotted with her. Then his common sense rallied, and he replied, "Yes, but not my ancestor that you bewitched and manipulated into doing your bidding."

Angelique laughed heartily. "So, I see. The Stokes family appears to have come a long way," she sneered.

"Indeed—far enough for it to be _me_ summoning you to do my bidding," he said confidently, earning a look of admiration from Julia.

Now Angelique began to acclimate and take in her surroundings. "The Old House," she said, "in the year?"

"1969," he answered. His eyes never left hers. "We have great need of you here, Angelique."

"We?" Now she scanned the room with her eyes. "Dr. Hoffman— _Julia_." Then seeing Quentin, who still held Maggie in his arms, she said, "And Quentin—so you've emerged from the I Ching trance and found someone new to share your embrace." Her laugh was cut short when Maggie released herself from Quentin's arms and turned to face the sorceress. " _You_? _Here_? How I've tired of you, _Josette_!"

"I am not Josette," Maggie returned in what she hoped was a confident voice.

Before the situation deteriorated further, Stokes recalled them all to the task at hand. "It is _I_ who summoned you," he said. "And _I_ who asks your help."

"Go on," she said. "Now that you're asking—not commanding, I will listen." She returned her gaze to the professor.

Stokes began, "We ask …" though the word 'ask' stuck in his throat, "your help in exorcising a demon." He saw something in her eyes then—was it fear?

"A demon?" she asked.

"Yes," Stokes confirmed. "A demon—but one that is subject to the will and power of one such as you."

"You're certain of this? Exorcising a demon can be like having a tiger by the tail," she said with a degree of vulnerability.

Stokes looked into her eyes and said, "Yes—in lesser hands, but it's been tamed before and can be again."

Now her confidence reasserted itself, and she asked, "And why should I undertake to exorcise a demon that's done nothing to me?"

"Barnabas would …" Julia began.

Angelique cut her off with a derisive snort. " _Barnabas_? Do not invoke his name, Julia." She turned back to Stokes, "Release me. Send me back. You have nothing to offer me and I do not wish to take this on uncompensated."

"We do have something to offer you," Maggie said.

"Oh?" Angelique asked.

"Yes," Maggie returned. "Josette DuPres."


	11. Chapter 11

A new day dawns on the great estate at Collinwood. A stiff wind blows as a herald of the powerful force that has been reintroduced to the estate. Four desperate people have summoned a formidable sorceress to aid them, knowing the risks of unleashing an unpredictable element among the populace of the town of Collinsport and the residents of the great estate. Though each has misgivings, none of them has more than Maggie Collins. For she has faced the sorceress's jealous wrath and was nearly destroyed by it.

* * *

Maggie sat in the dining room of the Inn with Professor Stokes. She came here often now—sometimes with Quentin for dinner after work or a late supper after a movie, sometimes she met Professor Stokes there for afternoon tea, once David and Amy's lessons were done for the day. On this day, she met the professor for a late morning repast. It still felt odd to her to frequent the dining room of the Inn, after so many years of working in the adjoining, more downscale coffee shop.

Mrs. Stoddard and Carolyn had taken David and Amy for an overnight trip to Bangor, leaving Maggie free for two days. So when Professor Stokes called, she drove into town to meet him. She felt vaguely guilty about enjoying her freedom, but the feeling was tempered by the need to help the professor. He was tasked with watching over Angelique.

"So, where is she?" Maggie asked.

Professor Stokes took a long sip of coffee then answered. "She is still upstairs. She had the dress shop send over a variety of clothing, from which she'll select a wardrobe for her stay in this time."

The evening before, the four co-conspirators who summoned Angelique to 1969, decided that she would be introduced as Professor Stokes's niece, visiting from Martinique. The latter detail, Angelique had insisted must be a part of her fabricated history. Julia had suggested that she stay hidden at the Old House, but Angelique rejected it out of hand.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I know it's more than you bargained for," Maggie told him sympathetically.

"It is I who am sorry, my dear. There are matters I must attend to at the university this afternoon. I'm afraid I'll have to entrust her to your watchful eye."

Maggie's face fell. She drew a deep breath. "If I must, but what am I going to do with her? She can barely stand the sight of me … and I …"

"Ah, my ears are burning," Angelique said as she approached their table. She was wearing one of the outfits sent over by the dress shop—a tan skirt with a box pleat, and a floral top that Maggie would never wear, but seemed to suit the sorceress. The professor stood. "My dear uncle," Angelique said loudly enough to attract the eyes of a couple at a neighboring table. She bestowed an unexpected peck on the professor's cheek. He pulled out a chair, silently inviting her to sit. "I hope there is still coffee in that pot," she said indicating the coffee pot on the table.

The professor signaled the waitress and asked for a fresh pot.

When the waitress left, Angelique began in a more subdued tone, "I should like to meet the demon's current host today."

"I don't think that's wise," Professor Stokes responded. "You are our secret weapon against it. If you tip your hand …"

Angelique's eyes sparkled to an impossible hue. "You worry too much, dear Uncle," she crooned and gently patted his arm. "Besides, I need something to occupy my time."

Maggie struggled to suppress her irritation when the professor's cheeks stained pink. "I think Julia had the right idea," Maggie began. "You should stay at the Old House until it's time to do the exorcism," she added in a hushed voice.

"Stay at the Old House until the full moon?" Angelique said in an imperious tone.

"The full moon?" Maggie echoed.

"Yes. Tell her, Professor—I mean, Uncle," Angelique said, but went on before the professor could speak. "The power of the full moon will aid me. And there is something else I will require." She waited until Maggie asked.

"What?" she sighed as much as asked.

"You must bring together the host, its vessel, and Quentin on the night of the full moon. Then I will exorcise this demon, free Quentin, and take what is mine in payment," Angelique continued, her tone unchanged.

"Of course—the vessel. Evan Hanley did say that it was forced back into its vessel," Maggie said.

"Evan Hanley? What has he to do with this?" Angelique asked.

Professor Stokes took charge, drawing the witch's eyes to his. He again acknowledged to himself that he found them quite disarming. Still he dissembled. "We contacted him through a séance. It's how we learned what we are dealing with."

Angelique rewarded the older man with a deeply dimpled smile. "You continue to impress, Professor, especially for a descendent of Ben Stokes."

"And you continue to underestimate the Stokes family, my dear Angelique. Ben Stokes," he began proudly, "managed to transcend the curse of the Collins family and survived the lot of you. He was the best and most honest chronicler of the Collins family. It is thanks to him that the truth is known to some, even if not to everyone."

"Why Professor, you almost make me proud to be a member of the Stokes family." Angelique's laugh belied the look in her eyes.

"Ahem." The professor was spared from having to mount a further defense of his family name, as Roger Collins approached their table. "Eliot, Maggie—I was at the host's stand making a dinner reservation and I couldn't leave without paying my respects," Roger said with remarkable, yet characteristic formality. When his eyes fell on Angelique's blond hair, he added, "to you and?"

Professor Stokes said, "Allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Angelique Bouchard. Angelique, Roger Collins."

Roger moved around the table to face Angelique. His face went pale when he beheld her. "Mr. Collins," Angelique greeted him as though she'd never met him before. "A pleasure to meet you."

Roger stared for an inappropriately long moment. Then fumbled to say, "Forgive me. You remind me of someone … I … I was taken aback by the resemblance."

"Indeed," Angelique said.

"Yes. You could be her sister, but for the difference in coloring," Roger said, a shadow passing over his features.

"I believe there is a saying to the effect that everyone has a double somewhere in the world. How disconcerting that mine should be so close at hand!" she burbled lightly.

"Have you visited Collinsport before?" Roger asked.

"Why, no. I'm afraid not," Angelique responded with her smile firmly fixed in place.

Joe's tale lurked in the back of Roger's mind, but he found that her eyes and her smile cast a spell of their own. He cleared his throat and continued, "So you've come to visit your uncle. Are you staying long?"

"I've not fixed a date for my return home, but I'll be here for at least another week, perhaps two."

"Well," Roger said in a warm tone, "you've come to Maine at a lovely time of year."

" _Collin_ wood, _Collins_ port and Roger _Collins_? I take it you are a member of the namesake family," Angelique purred.

Roger laughed, "Guilty as charged." He continued proudly, "Our family has been here since the 17th century. It founded the local businesses and the town that grew up around them. The estate has many lovely walks and drives. If it's not too forward of me, I'd love to show you the Collinwood estate."

Professor Stokes intervened. "Don't forget, my dear niece," he said to Angelique, "that you agreed to assist me with my research."

Angelique batted her lashes at the professor. "How could I forget, Uncle Eliot? But surely there's time enough for me to take Mr. Collins up on his generous offer."

"Of course," Stokes acquiesced, rather than appear boorish in front of Roger.

"It's settled then. I happen to be free this afternoon, if you're not otherwise engaged," Roger said.

"I'm not," Angelique said with a deceptively coy smile.

"Very well. I'll pick you up here at three o'clock, we'll go for a drive, and then dinner, if that's all right with your uncle," Roger said, appealing to Stokes with an eager look.

Stokes responded with a shrug, but added in a gracious tone, "Of course. I'm glad my niece has something to occupy her time, other than serving as my research assistant."

"It's settled then," Roger said.

Maggie folded her arms across her chest, grateful, at least, that David was not there to witness his father so blatantly on the make with his former wife's doppelganger.

* * *

The next morning, Maggie, still in her peignoir, kissed Quentin at the farmhouse door. "I wish you could stay here with me today," she told him enticingly.

"Oh?" he replied with a raised eyebrow.

"Um hm," she hummed seductively, drawing him into her embrace.

He mustered his resistance to her charm. "So, what will you do today?" he asked to tamp down his baser impulses.

"I suppose I'll check in with Professor Stokes to see if he needs help babysitting Angelique."

"I doubt it. Roger seems to have that well in hand. I think he'll do any babysitting that's necessary," Quentin told her.

"That's what I'm afraid of, but at least it might keep her out of the way while we figure out how to get our hands on the puzzle-box. Other than that, I don't have any plans for the day. Maybe I'll take a long bubble bath and finally finish that mystery I've been reading."

"You could spend every day that way if you quit your job," he said.

With everything else that had overtaken their lives in recent days, their previous disagreements seemed mundane. She smiled and surprised him by not resuming their previous argument and saying instead, "I hadn't thought of it that way."

After Quentin drove down the drive and out of sight, Maggie went inside, called Professor Stokes, and made arrangements to meet him that afternoon.

They met for afternoon tea, not at the Inn, but in the Professor's sitting room. The professor had placed a decanter of sherry and three stemmed sherry glasses on the coffee table. Before Maggie could inquire about the third glass, there was a knock at the door.

"I've asked Julia to join us," the professor said. "I know that you two are at odds at the moment, but she is a valuable ally."

"It's fine," Maggie mumbled in response.

Julia entered and removed her gloves; the professor helped her out of her coat. "Maggie" "Julia" was the full extent of the pleasantries between the two women. They assembled in the sitting room. Professor Stokes served the sherry then joined Julia on the couch.

"Where is Angelique?" Julia asked them.

The professor answered. "I believe Roger is taking her out again this afternoon. They're meeting at the Inn."

Julia's lips twisted into a sneer. "Do you think that's wise?"

"Decidedly not," the professor replied. "But I can hardly stop her. Besides, I suspect she can hold her own, as an accomplished liar is wont to do."

Maggie resisted the temptation to cast an accusatory glance in Julia's direction. "Maybe it's just as well that Angelique is otherwise occupied, so we can focus on the task at hand, which is finding out where Joe is hiding that box," Maggie said.

Both Professor Stokes and Julia fixed her with the same appraising look. Then Stokes said, "Indeed." His arched eyebrow allowed his monocle to tumble to his chest. "I was unsuccessful in my first attempt," he said, "but I will tread more carefully this time."

"That's out of the question, Eliot," Julia said decisively. "Last time, he nearly killed you."

"She's right," Maggie chimed in. "I should go to the cottage … maybe when we know he won't be there."

"Too risky," Julia said. "What if he returns while you're there?"

"I'll think up an excuse, or one of you can stand lookout," Maggie said.

"It could work," Julia said, dragging out the words as she thought. "But he could have hidden it anywhere—not necessarily at the cottage."

"True, but he'd want to keep it close by," Maggie said. "It's the logical place to start. I'll need to get the extra key from the cupboard in Mrs. Johnson's office. Then, we'll make sure he's still at work. We go in and search the place— _neatly_. In case we don't find it, we don't want him to know we've been there. If the three of us go together, two of us can quickly search for the box, while the third stands lookout."

Julia acknowledged that it was a good plan, but added, "And if we don't find it?"

Maggie responded, "Then we'll need a Plan B."

* * *

The three disconsolate co-conspirators convened in the Great House drawing room following their unsuccessful search, and Maggie began to formulate Plan B. The key was to gain Joe's trust. If, as Evan had told her, the demon and its host came together as one, the part that was Joe would still have feelings for her. She could go to him … and then what? Make dishonest overtures to him? Betray the spirit of her marriage to tempt him into revealing the location of the vessel? Time was running out and so were better options.

In the meantime, she suggested they disband for the evening—she to her husband, Professor Stokes to oversee Angelique, and Julia to check on Willie—all the while though, her mind kept coming back to one thought again and again—trust was the key.

* * *

The next afternoon, Amy put on her green coat and crept out of the Great House and into the woods. She claimed to have a headache, and said she was headed to her room to lie down. Instead, she walked through the woods to the cottage where her brother, Chris, once lived, and where her cousin Joe now called home.

Amy was still heartbroken by her brother's sudden departure from Collinwood. He had long kept her at arm's length—never asking her to live with him at the cottage, instead insisting that she'd be better off at the Great House. At least when he lived on the estate, she could see him. Now there was a hole in her life.

Then Joe was released from Windcliff Sanitarium, and Amy again hoped to have a family member in her life. But Joe had disappointed her too. He'd come back different somehow, remote and distant, and not like Joe at all. He'd run into her once at the Great House, but not sought her out. And as a child, she wasn't free to seek him out. She missed him—not the Joe who returned from Windcliff, but Joe, the way he was before he left—kind and friendly.

She approached the cottage, went to the front door, and knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again—harder this time, until her knuckles stung from the effort—still, no response. She looked through the window in the door. The cottage looked quiet and still; no fire burned in the fireplace. Then she went to the rear window, but found the curtains drawn. Joe was not there.

She returned to the front of the cottage. There was an old stone urn to the side of the door. She remembered when Chris moved in. She had called it an outdoor vase. Chris had laughed, but Amy didn't mind, because it wasn't a mean laugh. He was just amused. "It's called an urn," he told her. "This one is purely decorative, but I'm going to put it to good use," he said, as he tilted it up with one hand and slid his extra key underneath the urn's pedestal. He winked at Amy. "You know how forgetful I can be."

Amy stooped down and struggled to tip the urn. Something shiny gleamed underneath. Amy reached carefully under it, and used her thumb and forefinger to pull it out. Chris's extra key was still there, albeit dirty and gross. She dusted it off, inserted it into the keyhole, and turned the key. The door opened. Amy went inside and sat on the couch. She wished it were Chris living there instead of Joe. But Chris was gone and Joe was the only family she had left.

She curled up in the corner of the couch and hugged one of the pillows tight to her chest. She closed her eyes and thought about Chris—the sound of his voice, and the way she could always tell how he was feeling just by looking at his eyes …

* * *

"Hey, wake up!" Amy felt a strong hand shaking her shoulder. "Wake up. What are you doing here, Amy?"

Amy opened her eyes to find Joe standing over her. She pushed herself up and swung her legs off of the couch. "I must have fallen asleep," she said in a groggy voice.

"I can see that, but what were you doing here in the first place?" Joe demanded. "How'd you get in here?"

"I let myself in, Joe." Seeing the look on his face, she said, "I really wanted to see you."

He softened and said, "Well, you can't go around letting yourself into other people's homes, Amy. You know better than that."

"You're right, Joe and I'm sorry." Amy's voice shifted into a whine. "But you never come to see me. Everyday I think you'll come and visit—but you never do."

"I'm sorry, Amy, but I've been busy. You know that. It's not easy being back in Collinsport and back at the cannery after being in Windcliff." He matched her whiny tone. "Roger's given me a lot of responsibility, and the men test me everyday to make sure I'm up to it." His words came out in a flood then he remembered he was addressing a child. "I guess you wouldn't understand."

Amy got off of the couch and drifted around the room. "I always liked coming here when Chris lived here," she said. She stopped by the fireplace. Her eyes fixed on the small cabinet above the mantle. "Chris used to say that the cottage was full of secret compartments and places to hide things."

"What are you talking about Amy?" Joe asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I was just remembering stuff that Chris and I talked about."

"Hide what, Amy?" Joe asked, now suspicious.

"Nothing, Joe. Nothing in particular."

"I don't believe you, Amy. Tell me the truth. Why are you really here?" Joe asked in an increasingly angry tone.

"I ... I," she stammered. "I thought there might be treasure hidden here," she said at last.

" _Treasure_? What gave you that idea, Amy?"

"It's … it's just a game that David and I are playing," she stammered again.

In two long strides, Joe stood in front of the girl. His voice was loud and harsh. He grabbed her upper arms and lifted her to her toes. "I don't believe you, Amy. Look at me—tell me the truth!"

"I heard Dr. Hoffman and Maggie talking about it this morning," Amy said, looking up at her cousin through terrified eyes.

"What did they say?" Joe demanded of his young cousin.

"I don't remember exactly—something about a box. That's why I think the treasure must be jewels. Maybe if we find it, we can sell them and then go and look for Chris."

"What did they say, Amy?" he demanded, shaking the girl for emphasis.

"I don't know," she cried. Then tears began to flow. "I don't remember. You're hurting me, Joe. Let go. I don't like it when you're like this," she cried. He released her arms and Amy dropped heavily to her feet. "I don't like it when you're like this," she cried again and ran from the cottage.

"Amy, come back," he barked at her from the doorway. He slammed his fist against the doorjamb then paced back into the room. _Maggie and Julia—were looking for the box?_ He was glad he'd moved it after Professor Stokes came snooping around. But what did it mean that Maggie and Julia were discussing it? Clearly they were working together with Stokes. _What did they know? What could they know?_ It didn't matter. It was safe where he'd hidden it—and it would remain safe.

Then a nagging doubt lodged in his mind. He felt an overwhelming compulsion to see it—to hold it—as he did at least once a day now that he no longer kept it at the cottage.

He left the light burning in the cottage, but closed the door behind him. He made his way a short distance into the woods. There he found the tree that had been felled, probably by lightning long ago. At the base of its now dead trunk a fissure opened. He bent on one knee and reached into the fissure. Using his hands, he brushed away a pile of leaves to reveal the box, still safe in its hiding place. He brushed the box clean with his hands. He looked at it. It was safe.

He turned it in his hand, silently contemplating his odd, contradictory relationship with the box. Then he replaced it, and obscured it once again with leaves and dirt. He stood and allowed himself a satisfied smile, as he returned to the cottage.

* * *

When Amy returned to the Great House, Maggie met her in the foyer. "Amy! Where have you been? You were supposed to be in your room!" Maggie said.

"I went for a walk," Amy said. "I thought it would make me feel better."

"Amy, you know better than that. Even if you wanted to take a walk, you should have asked me first," Maggie returned in a stern voice. "Let's discuss this in the drawing room."

Once inside, Amy's face twisted as she began to cry. She turned to Maggie and threw her arms around her governess's waist. "I'm sorry, Maggie. Please don't be mad at me."

"What is it, Amy? What happened?" Maggie asked. Amy shook her head furiously back and forth. "Come on, then," Maggie said. "I think you need to tell me everything." Maggie closed the doors behind them then led Amy to the couch beside the fireplace. The fire cast a glow of light and warmth over them. "All right Amy. Tell me what happened and why you're upset."

"I'm sorry, Maggie. I went to the cottage to look for the box, in the place where Chris used to hide things, just like we talked about."

"You shouldn't have gone on your own. You should have waited for me." Maggie gently scolded her young charge, which produced a fresh wave of tears.

Amy sniffed back her tears then continued. "When I got to the cottage, I kept thinking about Chris. And then I sat down on the couch and I guess I fell asleep. And then Joe came back and he wasn't happy to find me there. At first I told him that David and I were playing a game, but he didn't believe me. So, I told him that I heard you and Dr. Hoffman talking about a box, and I thought it might be treasure, and I thought we could use it to go and find Chris. I don't know why I said that, Maggie. I shouldn't have said that, but he was so angry—angrier than I've ever seen him." Amy started to softly cry again. "He's not the same, Maggie."

"No, he isn't the same since he came back from Windcliff. The Joe I know would never hurt you, Amy. I shouldn't have involved you." Maggie reproached herself.

"I'm sorry, Maggie. I was so frightened that I ran out of the cottage and hid in the woods," Amy said. "Just for a little while. "

Maggie could tell from Amy's face that there was more to the story. She took Amy's hand in hers and began in a gentle voice that belied the impatience she was feeling, "Go on. Tell me everything."

Amy looked at her through tear-stained eyes. "I don't know if I should, Maggie. Joe is already so angry with me."

"You want to help him, don't you Amy?"

"Yes, I do. I really do," Amy told her.

"Well, remember what I said about finding the key to helping him. Maybe we can get the old Joe back. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Amy nodded her agreement. "I was still upset, so I hid in the woods until I stopped crying. Then I saw Joe. At first I thought he was looking for me. But I was afraid so I didn't say anything. Then I could tell he wasn't looking for me, because he went directly to this old tree, and I could tell that's what he was looking for—not me."

"Go on," Maggie encouraged her.

"That's all really," Amy said.

"Did he do anything?" Maggie asked.

"Oh, yes. He bent down and looked into the place where the trunk is split open. Then I knew for sure he wasn't looking for me. Then he stood up and left. I think he was going back to the cottage."

"And did you go and look at the tree?" Maggie asked.

"Oh no. I was too frightened. I just wanted to come back before it got dark," Amy cried.

Maggie felt her pulse quicken. "Do you think you can show me the tree—the exact one that Joe went to?"

"Oh yes, Maggie," Amy responded, always eager to please.

"Good. Listen to me, Amy. You mustn't tell anyone else about this—not even David. Do you understand?" Maggie asked.

"Yes, Maggie, but why?" the girl asked.

"You must trust me, Amy. This is _our_ secret—promise me."

"I promise, Maggie. I won't let you down. I promise," Amy beamed in response.

"Good. I want you to wait here for me," Maggie said.

"Why? Where are you going?" Amy asked in a voice that bordered on shrill.

"I just need to speak to Carolyn for a few minutes, but I'll be right back."

* * *

Maggie had only seen Carolyn in passing since she and Mrs. Stoddard returned from Bangor with the kids. Since marrying Quentin, Maggie spent less time with Carolyn, but they remained close friends and confidants.

When she answered Maggie's knock, Carolyn was clearly happy to see her friend. "Maggie! Come on in," she said pulling the door open wide and ushering Maggie in with the wave of her hand.

Maggie walked in and perched on the edge of Carolyn's bed.

"Which ones do you like with this blouse?" Carolyn asked holding up two different earrings to each of her ears.

"The blue ones," Maggie said. "Going on a date?"

"No. Tony's meeting with a new client in Boston. That's why I went to Bangor, to pass the time until he gets back."

"How was Bangor?" Maggie asked conversationally.

"Oh, you know … David picking on Amy and bossing her around … Mother dragging us to the museum … but at least I found time to do a little shopping," Carolyn concluded, indicating a pile of bags in the corner of her room.

Maggie smiled. She envied Carolyn's breezy, carefree affect, even though she knew her friend had her share of darkness and struggles. Everyone at Collinwood had their share—it was what united them.

"So, what's up?" Carolyn asked. "Not that I'm not always happy to see you, but you don't often just drop in to hang out anymore."

"I'm sorry, Carolyn. I guess I haven't been a very good friend lately."

Carolyn laughed. "That's how it is when your friends get married."

"I feel especially bad now, because I've come to ask a favor of you," Maggie said.

"You don't have to feel bad about it, just name it. What's the favor?"

"Would you invite Joe to the Blue Whale for a drink?" Maggie asked.

" _Joe_? I mean, sure but why?"

"Amy went to visit him earlier and he upset her terribly. I know how hard it can be—coming back to Collinsport after being at Windcliff. I thought maybe he could use a friend—an old friend—someone who _really_ knows him." Maggie found the lie came easier than expected.

"And you can't be that friend," Carolyn said, as she plopped down on the bed beside Maggie.

Maggie looked down. "I'm married to Quentin now. Joe is having a hard time accepting that, to say nothing of how it would set people's tongues to wagging."

Carolyn sighed deeply. "That's true. Anyway, I'd be happy to." Carolyn stood and retrieved one of the shopping bags. "Let me show you this new sweater," she began.

But Maggie interrupted her. "I was hoping you'd meet him now," Maggie said, trying to convey the importance without sounding pushy.

Carolyn put the bag down. "Now?" She furrowed her brow. "Do you really think it's that important?"

"I do, Carolyn. I really do. I wouldn't ask otherwise."

"All right, Maggie." Carolyn went to the baby-blue phone on the nightstand beside her bed, and dialed the cottage phone—the number still committed to memory from all of the times she called Chris there. She waited. "Hello Joe. It's Carolyn … Carolyn Stoddard, of course … very funny." Maggie sat on the bed listening to Carolyn's end of the conversation. "I just got back from Bangor and I'm kind of at loose-ends, and I thought maybe my old friend Joe would like to go for a drink. I haven't seen you since you got back … please … _please_ … great. Why don't I swing by and pick you up? See you then." Carolyn hung up and turned to Maggie. "Happy now? I'm picking him up in fifteen minutes."

"Thanks Carolyn. I should get back to Amy." Maggie went to the door, but turned back to her friend. "I really appreciate this, Carolyn," she said to assuage her own guilty feelings.

"Don't worry about it. In truth, I should have called Joe long before now. So thank _you_ for getting me to do something I should have done anyway," Carolyn said with a smile.

* * *

The Blue Whale was where Collinsport gathered. While the Inn attracted a more upscale crowd, the Blue Whale brought together people from all walks of Collinsport life—from the scions of the Collins family, Carolyn and Quentin, to the cannery and mill workers, to visitors passing through town—the Blue Whale was where they gathered to drink and unwind.

When Joe and Carolyn arrived at the Blue Whale, a group of cannery and mill workers were still at the bar, finishing after-work drinks and verbally jousting with one another. A few tables were already occupied with couples enjoying a drink before heading to the movie theater. Carolyn snagged the first unoccupied table she saw, while Joe headed to the bar to get their drinks.

A few moments later, Joe joined Carolyn, placing two beers on the table.

"I should have called you before now, Joe. I should have called as soon as you got back, but …" Carolyn began, unsure how to finish the thought, let alone the sentence.

Joe spared her by saying, "That's okay, Carolyn. I'm sure you've been busy."

Carolyn looked up and saw in his expression and manner that he meant it to sting—and it did. She countered, "Actually, I thought for sure I'd run into you at the Great House from time to time, what with Amy living there and all."

Joe laughed. "Touché! Well met. Let's just say, we've both been remiss." Then he raised his glass, "To old friends."

Carolyn raised hers and responded in kind, "To old friends." She continued, "So, how are you? How are you settling in? It must be hard being back, but I understand Uncle Roger is doing what he can to help."

Joe offered her a wry smile in response. "Oh yes, Roger has been most generous, but I didn't come back to trade on the generosity of others—even someone as _generous_ as Roger Collins. I came back to pick up where I left off—I came back to build something—something all my own. And I still plan to. I plan to build a fishing fleet to rival that of even the great Collins family," he said. He went on with a strange grandiose gleam in his eyes, "I've been locked away far too long, and I've emerged into a world that's full of possibilities for someone like me."

Carolyn gave him a puzzled look in response. "And does your future include Amy?"

" _Amy_?"

"Yes—Amy. Joe, ever since Chris left, Amy's felt like she's alone in the world. You're her only family."

Joe's eyes flashed with anger. "Is that what this is about?" he demanded. "I thought you wanted to share a friendly drink—to get reacquainted. When all the while, you wanted to talk about Amy? What did she tell you? That I was mean to her? Did she tell you that she let herself into the cottage? I have no idea how long she was there or what she was doing. Did she tell you that?" His angry tone drew stares from the adjacent tables.

"Calm down, Joe. I didn't mean to upset you."

"But you have, Carolyn." He stood abruptly, his chair scraping hard and loud, as he did so. "I'll find my own way home," he said brusquely, rising and storming out of the bar, again drawing puzzled stares—this time from all those gathered at the Blue Whale.

* * *

Maggie gave Carolyn five minutes lead-time. She waited with Amy in the drawing room, listening for Carolyn to exit the Great House, and then for the sound of her car heading down the drive.

Finally, once she was sure that Carolyn had time to get to the cottage, Maggie said to Amy, "Do you remember which tree it was, Amy?"

"Oh yes, Maggie, I could hardly forget that."

"Good. I want you to take me there," Maggie said, as she rose from the couch and headed to the drawing room door.

"Now?" Amy asked, her eyes wide. "It's already getting dark out, Maggie. I don't like being in the woods at night."

"It's barely dark out, Amy. We'll be fine. Besides, we'll be together and I'll bring a flashlight," Maggie said sensibly. "All you have to do is show me the tree, and we'll come right back. Do you think you can do that for me, Amy?"

"All right, Maggie. I will, if you think it will help Joe."

"I really do, Amy."

It was still early evening as the two headed into the woods. The sun's final rays still burnished the horizon, but in a moment that would change and dusk would give way to darkness. For that reason, and because of the anxious child leading her, Maggie tried to move quickly through the woods.

"If we go to the cottage, I can find it from there," Amy said, forgetting her fear momentarily and thinking methodically, rather than emotionally, for a change.

They moved to within several yards of the cottage. All the windows were dark and Maggie felt comforted knowing that Joe was not there.

"This way," Amy whispered and tugged on Maggie's hand. Amy led them down a well-worn path deeper into the woods. "Right here," she said. "This is where I hid—I mean I wasn't hiding—not at first. I was just upset and crying. Then Joe came, and I didn't want him to be mean to me again, so I stopped crying and hid behind this tree." Amy rambled on, "I peeked out from behind it and I saw him go to that tree." She pointed.

"Are you sure that's the one, Amy?" Maggie asked. It was by now fully dark, and they moved by the light of the flashlight and the waxing moon.

"Yes, I'm certain," Amy said. "The top of the tree looks like a crown, the way the branches are broken, and there's the crack in the trunk. That's where Joe went—to that tree."

"Okay, I'm going to take a look. Wait here for me." But Amy shook her head and didn't let go of Maggie's hand. "All right, come on then."

They moved to the tree and Maggie gently extricated her hand from Amy's. Maggie went down on one knee. She shined the light into the crack at the base of the trunk. There was a pile of dirt and dead leaves. She flinched, but then stuck her hand in. She could feel something hard underneath the camouflage. Holding the light with one hand, she brushed aside the leaves and dirt with the other. Maggie swallowed deeply—there it was—the puzzle-box. She covered it again with dirt and leaves, hoping it looked much as Joe had left it.

"Well?" Amy asked when Maggie stood and turned back to face her.

"Nothing. Maybe he just likes this tree. Just remember what we talked about, Amy—this is _our_ secret."

"I know, Maggie. I can't tell anyone, not even David."

"That's right, not David, or Dr. Hoffman, or even Mrs. Stoddard— _no one_."

When they returned to the Great House, Maggie sent Amy upstairs to wash up before dinner and then join David in the dining room. A short time later, Quentin arrived to pick up his wife following their respective workdays. He found her in the drawing room, staring into a blazing fire, lost in thought. Her guilt over using a child to do what she could not warred with her relief at having the means to exorcize the demon.

"Maggie? Are you all right?" Quentin asked, puzzled by her pensive mood.

"No, but I will be, when all of this is over." She rose, went to him, and threaded her arms around his waist. "Let's go home," she whispered.


	12. Chapter 12

The moon waxes over the great estate of Collinwood—a harbinger of certain change. For Quentin Collins, the approaching full moon renews his fear of a dreaded curse, one that will come to fruition when the moon completes its cycle to full. But even as it brings fear to one man, it brings opportunity to another.

* * *

The moon was waxing. Soon it would rise full into the night sky over Collinwood. Joe felt ascendant. He felt as though the coming full moon empowered him—fueled him. He sat at his desk in his office at the cannery; his eyes fixed on the scenery outside its large window.

On the night of the last full moon, he had made his play for Maggie. It had not gone as he had planned. She avoided him now—that much was clear. She not only avoided him, she had been drawn into whatever plan, Professor Stokes and Julia Hoffman had been concocting. If he could separate her from their influence, he felt certain he could rekindle in her the feelings for him that once animated their relationship.

But he'd seen her only a few times—mostly from afar. Once she was walking down the town's main street with David and Amy in tow. He trailed them several steps behind, watching her dark hair swinging back and forth across her shoulders. When they turned to enter the library, he rounded the corner of a cross-street, lest they see him. Another time, she had entered the Blue Whale with Quentin, and upon seeing Joe, grabbed her husband's arm and pulled him out of the bar. She was different since the night of the full moon.

But Joe was different too. His conversation with Carolyn had reminded him of what he wanted. He had taken more and more from Roger Collins—and it had been easy. Every time Roger seemed poised to question Joe's increasing profile at the cannery, Joe would take him by the hand in a show of faux bonhomie, and then know exactly the right thing to say or do to quell Roger's concerns. In recent days, Roger had been largely absent. The rumor of his new romance was the talk of the cannery. It had planted the seed that Joe didn't necessarily need to build a fishing fleet to rival the Collins family. He could simply take the fleet and cannery from them. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that it would be the culmination of his desires in that regard.

Roger was easy. The men at the cannery were less so. He could not reach every one of them, could not _influence_ each of them. And he knew that while some were his friends of old, others were jealous of his rise to be Roger's right hand, and of his place in the company. He could read the envy in their eyes. They too would fall in line when he became the man at the top.

And then of course, there was Maggie.

* * *

It was hubris that led to this place … to this state of being. Long, long ago _It_ had been human—a man—and he had dared to want more, to let his desires exceed his position. He had challenged those who wielded the secret power—those who had studied it, and were the keepers of it. Only those anointed by birth were allowed to study the texts, and harness the power of nature itself.

He had had an innate ability to read and influence others. When he was young, the touch of his hand was all that was needed to understand what motivated those around him. As he grew, so did his ability. So too did his envy of those who were the keepers of the secret knowledge. He read their fear—fear that his innate ability combined with the secrets they held close, would make him formidable in his own right.

It was then that he decided to act. Against all tradition and the ways of their society, he had sought the power for himself. And for that, he had paid dearly. He had read only their fear, but not their resolve. Those who wielded the power passed judgment on him for his transgression. He had been stripped of his corporeal form and existence, and confined to a wooden vessel for all time … at least that was the intent.

The vessel was entrusted to a guardian. Each guardian in turn chose a successor, someone to ensure the vessel's safekeeping. Over the decades and then centuries, the punishment's object and cause were all but forgotten—all that remained was the knowledge of the corrupted spirit inside the wooden box. Every few generations, the guardian would relax or be distracted long enough for _It_ to escape the confines of the vessel into a corporeal host.

The last host had been a woman. She had long been on the fringes of the social circle of which the guardian was an established member. The guardian was a worldly man—a man of means and appetites. He was senior to her in the ways that mattered most in that society—in age and status. Though she was not well connected or wealthy enough to earn a spot on his arm at the most fashionable salons and soirees, she was good enough to share a meal and then take to bed.

In the guardian's fashionable townhouse, the morning after he had bedded her, she encountered the vessel. By now, the guardian carelessly treated the vessel as a decorative piece, displaying it on a shelf with other small trophies of his wealth. While he lay among the pillows, sleeping off his evening's exertions, she became entranced with the small wooden box. She turned it again and again in her hands. One of the wooden panels gave slightly as she turned it. She gently slid it to the side. It was a puzzle-box.

She sat at his writing table and worked at sliding the panels of the box—first one way, then the other—searching for the right combination to open the box and reveal what was inside. She silently mused that perhaps it contained something of great value—why else would one design such an elaborate box? Yet it made no sound when shaken. What she lacked by way of the best education and worldly experience, she made up in perseverance and determination. Before long, she slid a panel and heard a small click that signaled that she had found the sequence to open the box.

Her hands shook a little in anticipation as she opened it. To her disappointment, the box was empty, but then from within its dark wooden interior, a plume of smoke emerged, then another. Her eyes widened. How could such a thing be possible? How could a box hold vapors inside? A moment later she would have her answer. Plumes of smoke invaded her eyes and nostrils, as _It_ entered her mind and body.

When the guardian woke languorously, he found she'd left. Several hours later, he discovered that she'd taken the puzzle-box with her.

She had left Bath and relocated to London with the box as her traveling companion.

Part of the punishment, _It_ discovered, was that _It_ must bond with the host in order to be free. _Its_ will could only be expressed through the host— _Its_ own desires must be directed in service of the host's. When _Its_ host was a woman, _It_ must live as a woman. In that time and place, _It_ … _she_ could not do as she liked. Instead, she must work within the norms of the time and place, but _It_ drove her, pushed her to pursue her desires with more ruthlessness, more ferocity, than she thought possible. She had used her friends, male companions, her body, and her wiles—whatever it took to move into a better circle of society.

And she wished to remain there, but eventually, as was always the case, the guardian found her. She saw him coming for her. He had aged. He looked tired and shabby. Perhaps _Its_ hubris lived on, because she underestimated the old man. Until the moment when he removed the box from his pocket, she believed she was beyond his reach. How he had managed to secure the box, she did not know—she would never know. The old man opened the box, invoked the power of the rising full moon, and returned _It_ to the vessel.

Another hundred years would pass before _It_ was released once again. _It_ spent a hundred years in confinement and darkness before the panels slid and the box opened. This time its host was a man, as _It_ had once been in its long-forgotten corporeal form. Now, _It_ had bonded its will and determination to a man in 1969. _It_ enjoyed the taste of bourbon and a decent cigar. _It_ enjoyed the freedom—the ease with which its host could move—transport and communication made life rich and accessible.

 _It_ could have given the host anything, taken him anywhere. If only he weren't bound to life in this provincial town, to ordinary desires and wants—they could have gone anywhere. To be a man in this time and this place … there was so much potential, if only the host saw that potential too, but once again, _It_ was limited by the reach and desires of its host. That, _It_ found, was the real punishment.

* * *

When Angelique woke that morning she could feel the power of the coming full moon coursing through her. She knew that every supernatural being must feel it—some, like Quentin with his werewolf legacy, must dread it; others, like her who drew upon the elements, felt its potential and power. It drew everything to the surface—even mortals felt its pull. Only those like Barnabas—those who walked only at night regardless of the phases of the moon—were heedless of its pull.

She finished styling her hair—removing bobby-pins to free two perfect tendrils to frame her face. She had piled the rest of her blond hair on top of her head in a complex up-do, which she finished by spraying it stiff with hairspray. It was one of the marvels of this time, and she had missed it during her stay in 1897. She slipped off the silk dressing gown she purchased courtesy of her "Uncle" Eliot. Then she donned a purple shift dress. Its simple sophistication suited the role she played as Stokes's niece.

This morning she thought that she'd prefer the company of her faux uncle to that of Roger Collins. Roger was already starting to bore her. Stokes, though he lacked Roger's charm, intrigued her, and she, him. He was surprisingly well versed on all manner of the supernatural and occult. One would expect a self-professed expert on the occult to be so, but Angelique was amazed by how many people considered to be experts, in fact, knew very little. She had visited the professor many times now, sometimes to simply pour over his extensive collection of books. That was part of what kept her from simply taking what she wanted from Maggie, and leaving them to deal with the demon on their own.

The other part, she had to admit, was that she felt she belonged in Collinwood. She wanted to claim her rightful place there. She was ready to return to 1969—this time, without the subterfuge of pretending to be Cassandra—without having to link her life to the likes of Roger Collins. She was ashamed to admit that she wanted the same things that mere mortals wanted—a sense of place and belonging. If, in the short run, passing time with Roger were the price to be paid for walking its grounds, she would pay it—though not always gladly. Fortunately, this morning, he had called to say that business matters would claim him all day. He asked her to join him for dinner. She was happy to tell him that she was otherwise occupied assisting her uncle with his research.

She was enjoying her respite from the humiliation of loving Barnabas even as he would forever love another. She had come closer than she ever had before in making him love her. Next time would be different. For though she enjoyed the attention and admiration of others, in her heart she knew that Barnabas Collins was the only man she would ever truly love—and more, she believed that he would come to feel the same way about her. Why else would forces bring them back together again and again? One day soon he would see that too.

She surveyed herself in the mirror and found her reflection satisfying indeed. She would take breakfast in the dining room of the Inn, and then make her way to Stokes's home to finalize their plans for the evening.

* * *

Maggie woke before the sun had fully crested the horizon—it was still little more than a glow enlivening the morning. Still, the cool space where her husband should be, told her that, in spite of the early hour, Quentin was already awake.

She pulled on her robe and headed downstairs. She found him in the sitting room, looking out of the window in the general direction of the root cellar.

He startled when she walked up behind him and put a hand on his arm. "I hope I didn't wake you," he said in a tone that was flat and affectless.

"Not exactly. I missed you—that's all. It's so early, why don't you come back to bed?"

"How can I sleep, knowing what's to come?" he asked, finding the emotion that was lacking only a moment before. "When the moon rises, I'll turn into that _thing_." She slipped her arms around him from behind. He took her hands in his and held them tightly. He went on, "I know that I'll be confined—unable to hurt anyone—but the pain, Maggie. I can't describe it—I wouldn't even if I could," he concluded in a near whisper.

She was tempted to tell him the truth about the last transformation—the _whole_ truth. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered. Would it help him to know the truth? Would it help to know that the transformation was a belief planted in his mind? Would he feel angry and betrayed that she'd not told him sooner? _After tonight he'll never have to face the transformation again. What good will it do to tell him the truth now?_ She rationalized her lie of omission in her mind. If Angelique double-crossed them, or if the demon proved too strong to succumb to her powers, if the night ended as it began, then she would tell him the truth and they would face it together.

"Come on. Let's go back to bed," she said as she extricated her hands from his and released him from her embrace.

"I told you. I can't sleep," he said as he turned to face her.

"Who said anything about sleeping?" she whispered in response then led her husband upstairs.

* * *

Elizabeth Collins Stoddard was in the family dining room, enjoying her morning repast and perusing the _Collinsport Star_ , when her brother Roger appeared in the doorway.

"Good morning, Liz," he began, as he went to the sideboard to get his breakfast. He was impeccably dressed in a rich, lord-of-the-manor tweed suit.

"Good morning, Roger. It's rather early for you to be up and about, isn't it?" she asked, disapproval implicit in her tone.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he snapped back at her, over his shoulder.

She waited until he turned toward her. "Only this, since Miss Bouchard arrived in town, you've barely gone to the cannery. Even before that, you seem to have completely ceded running the cannery to Joe Haskell."

" _Delegated_ , and Joe has been doing an excellent job, Liz. Everybody says so," Roger huffed in response.

Elizabeth gathered herself. "Do you know what else they're saying? They're questioning whether it's still a Collins family business, when no one named Collins is ever there and since no one named Collins is making decisions."

"You're being ridiculous," he shot back. "I've always entrusted the day-to-day management of the businesses to a manager."

"But Joe was never a manager," she began.

"And have you heard something to make you think he isn't capable of managing the responsibilities I've given him?" he challenged her.

"He's only recently been released from Windcliff."

"Yes, and you were instrumental in bringing him here to Collinwood."

"But not so that he could take over the cannery bit-by-bit," she said.

"I don't know who your sources are, Liz, but I can assure you they're wrong," he fumed. "As to just having been released from Windcliff, if I recall correctly, it was not so long ago that you …"

Elizabeth stood suddenly and cut him off mid-sentence. "Stop before you say something you'll regret," she shouted.

"Well … well … how dare you question my fitness to make decisions about how to run the businesses," he stammered, reverting to the lifelong tone of frustrated deference to his older sister.

The siblings' voices carried into the hallway that led to the dining room and drew Carolyn toward them. As she approached, she saw Harry Johnson scurrying away, clearly surprised in the act of eavesdropping.

When she entered the dining room, her mother and uncle were facing off across the dining table from one another. Her mother's half eaten breakfast sat on the table in front of her; her Uncle Roger's plate appeared to be untouched. She closed the doors behind her to muffle the sound of their voices.

"What is going on?" Carolyn asked. Without waiting for a response, she continued, "David and Amy will be down shortly. Do you really want them to hear you arguing like this? To say nothing of the household staff—although it may be too late for that—I saw Harry snooping around."

When she finally paused and drew a breath, Roger said, "I'm sorry, Kitten. I don't know why things became so heated. I'm sorry, Liz."

"I'm sorry too," Elizabeth said in a tone that suggested the opposite.

The two siblings continued their breakfast in silence, as Carolyn filled a plate and then joined them at the table. Unwisely, she asked, "So what we're you two arguing about so early in the morning?"

"We were _discussing_ Joe Haskell's role at the cannery," Roger began.

"Joe?" Carolyn murmured in response.

"Yes," Roger said. "I think he's doing a splendid job. He's handling the responsibility quite well."

Elizabeth interjected, "And I think it's too much, too soon, and that your uncle should spend more time there so that the men know that a _Collins_ is still in charge."

"Sometimes I don't understand you, Liz. You were all in favor of bringing Joe to Collinwood," Roger began.

"For _Amy's_ sake, but he seems more focused on you and the business than on Amy," his sister countered.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Roger, but I think Mother is onto something. Joe has been acting very strangely since he returned—grandiose, yet moody," Carolyn said.

"Say no more, Kitten. I see this is an argument I can't win," Roger said in a conciliatory tone. "I told Miss Bouchard that I am otherwise engaged today; I had already planned to spend the day visiting both the cannery and the mill. So you see, you needn't have worried, Liz." He rose, folded his napkin, but threw it with force to the table beside his plate. "If anyone needs me, I'll be at the cannery, and then in Bangor for dinner. Don't expect me back this evening." He strode from the dining room, leaving Elizabeth and Carolyn to exchange concerned looks.

* * *

Professor Timothy Eliot Stokes stood before a mirror in his bedroom and adjusted his tie. He placed his monocle chain around his neck, donned his suit jacket, and tucked the monocle itself into his breast pocket. He was now ready for the day ahead. And what a day it would be—or perhaps more to the point—what a night it would be. The first night of the full moon—the moon would be at the height of its power. On this night, he would watch a sorceress of great power drive a demon—an actual demon—from its host.

He felt as though it would be the culmination of the Stokes family's involvement in the occult. Dating back to the time of his ancestor, Ben Stokes, his family had a long, sometimes unwitting, sometimes undesired, connection to things unnatural—indeed, supernatural. Although Ben had crudely documented these phenomena, passing the knowledge on to subsequent generations, Eliot Stokes believed he was the first to actively engage it. He had turned his academic interest in art and artifacts into a practical knowledge of the manifestations of the occult. Before long, he was a member of an established network of practitioners of the dark arts, but none so powerful as the sorceress he would observe that evening.

He went to his small kitchen and poured a cup of tea from his brown-betty teapot into a surprisingly delicate teacup. He took a sip and found it tepid and over-steeped to the point of bitterness. No matter—he would make a fresh pot when _she_ arrived.

He had fallen under her spell. He hated to admit it. Yet, it was true. He knew it for what it was—something akin to a schoolboy crush, but that knowledge did nothing to suppress his feelings. He knew he was not alone. It seemed to the professor that his pretend niece, the sorceress Angelique, had an effect on men. Her manner, her eyes, and her smile, when she chose to bestow it, were disarming. He saw that Roger felt it, and believed that Barnabas must have too.

Having at last met the woman in the flesh, he wondered how his ancestor, Ben Stokes, could have resisted her—let alone battled her. Intellectually, he knew that she was the same Angelique that cursed Barnabas, and cast the Collins family into generation after generation of pain and misfortune. She was the same Angelique that drove Barnabas's fiancé and his uncle into one another's arms. She was the same sorceress who ultimately drove her rival to her death, and as Maggie's tale demonstrated, did not hesitate to do it again in another time, to another rival.

A knock at the door, which he knew to be hers, interrupted his train of thought. When he opened it, she stood before him, a vision in purple. The scent of lilac cologne surrounded her. "Well," she said as she removed her gloves and looked past him into the sitting room, "aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Of course, my dear," he answered, opening the door wider to allow her admittance.

"My dear uncle," she said loudly, though there was no one within earshot to appreciate the performance. She pecked his cheek lightly then swept into the room. She removed her coat, deposited her handbag and gloves on the side-table, and took a seat on the couch as though she owned the place. She made it her own simply by being there. He was struck by the fact that Maggie and Julia had visited him many times, but neither of them took possession of his home the way Angelique did.

"Would you like a cup of tea? I was about to make a fresh pot," he said.

"No, thank you. I've been up for ages and had an entire pot of coffee at the Inn," she responded.

He turned, went into the kitchen, and set about making a fresh pot of tea. He did it more to have something to do as he attempted to calm the excitement he felt being in her presence, than from any desire for more tea. While waiting for the water to boil, he went to rejoin her in the sitting room. He found her perusing his bookshelf. He watched in silence as she removed a book and scanned its table of contents.

"Is something wrong, _Uncle_?" she asked without turning around. "I can practically feel your eyes on me, Eliot."

He swallowed hard, but was spared from offering any response, by a knock on the door.

"Are you expecting someone else?" she asked, turning at last to face him.

"Why, no," he responded, his cheeks still ruddy from being exposed. He turned at once to the door and opened it to find Julia Hoffman facing him. "Julia," he said by way of greeting.

"Eliot," she said.

"Please come in," he said holding the door open.

"I thought I should stop by …" she began and then stopped when she caught sight of Angelique across the small room.

"Julia, how good to see you," Angelique said, slamming the book shut and taking a seat on the professor's couch. "Would you like to sit?"

"Angelique," the doctor greeted her with a suspicious raised eyebrow. "No, thank you. I'm not staying long."

Professor Stokes felt like a husband caught by his wife flirting with an inappropriately younger woman. Julia assumed the role of irritated wife in his personal morality play. "As I was saying, Eliot, I thought I should stop by before heading to Windcliff to ask if all of the arrangements are in place for this evening."

It was Angelique who answered. "If by arrangements you mean, am I still willing to cast the demon out of Joe Haskell, then yes, all of the arrangements are in place."

Julia fixed Stokes with her gaze. He colored, looked down toward his feet, and then finally looked up and met her eyes. "Yes, Julia, I believe we're ready."

"Good. I should be back well before the moon rises. I'll meet you …" Julia began.

Angelique interrupted her. "That won't be necessary. Joe will surely be suspicious if there are too many people present."

"I'm afraid she's right, Julia," the professor chimed in.

"Very well," Julia said, bitter disappointment on her face and in her voice.

"I'll call you when it's done," the professor said.

"Be careful, Eliot," Julia said, casting a wary eye in Angelique's direction.

The professor could not recall a time when Julia seemed more vulnerable. "Of course, I will," he responded softly as he ushered her to the door. A moment later Julia was gone.

He turned back to see Angelique occupying the corner of his couch; her arm resting on its back; her cheeks deeply dimpled from a smile that spoke of besting an opponent. He suddenly found that his ardor for the sorceress was abating.

* * *

By that afternoon, Roger had visited Joe's office at the cannery a number of times. Joe wondered what prompted this sudden renewal of Roger's interest in the business. Perhaps the new woman in his life had dumped him or left town. Either way, Roger's intrusions were unwelcome to Joe.

Joe had been feeling at the height of his powers. He'd been striding around the cannery, making an impromptu visit to the docks, as if he already owned it. When he returned to his office and found Roger waiting, he'd grown impatient. _What_ _does Roger want now_? It was then that he realized he no longer needed to take Roger by the hand, or place a friendly arm around his shoulder, to see what motivated him or to plant the seed that he wanted to grow inside Roger's mind. He found he could cast out with his mind and extend his will beyond his touch. His powers were growing again.

"Ah, there you are, Joe. I'd like to speak with you about this," Roger began, dropping a file folder on the desk, as Joe sat down. Joe took up the folder and opened it. It contained only one item—the bill of sales for _Peggy's Pearl_. "We had an agreement, Joe, that you would run all major decisions by me," Roger said in haughty _Collins_ manner intended to remind Joe who was in charge.

"The purchase of one boat hardly seems like a _major_ decision," Joe countered.

"Look, Joe, it's a shame what happened to Jerry—missing, presumed dead. I know you want to help Jerry's widow …" Roger began.

Joe snorted a derisive laugh. "That's where you're wrong. How little you know me," he said. "I didn't do it to help Peggy Gerse. I did it because _Peggy's Pearl_ should have been mine all along," he angrily spat the words. "We were going to buy it together, but it was _my_ idea, _my_ dream." Joe paused and drew a deep breath. Roger's shocked expression told him he'd said too much. He needed to focus.

"Joe, I …" Roger began, but Joe did not hear the words that followed. Instead he focused on the waves of insecurity radiating off of Roger. He focused on Roger's self-doubt.

"It's Mrs. Stoddard, isn't it?" Joe asked.

"I beg your pardon," Roger replied in confusion.

"It's Mrs. Stoddard who's made you question my role here, who's made you doubt the decisions you've made. She still treats you like a younger brother—not like an equal."

"You're right," Roger said, wearing his wounded dignity on his sleeve.

"It's _her_ you should be speaking to," Joe exhorted him. "It's _her_ you should be castigating, not me."

"Yes, you're right," Roger said, the flush of indignation on his cheeks.

"As to buying _Peggy's Pearl_ , it felt like taking back what's mine," Joe said. "I'm planning to rename it too."

Their indignation fueled one another. "Go on," Roger exhorted him.

"I plan to call her, the _Sweet Revenge_."

* * *

Earlier that day, Maggie had called Joe's office to confirm that he was there. She'd asked his secretary if he was available. When the secretary confirmed that Joe was at his desk, Maggie had summarily hung up without leaving her name. She knew it was then safe to retrieve the box.

She'd told Mrs. Johnson that she forgotten something at the farm, and asked her to keep an eye on Amy and David while they did their math exercises. Mrs. Johnson had groused under her breath that married Maggie wasn't as reliable as Maggie had been before Quentin, but had agreed. What choice did she have?

All the way from the Great House, Maggie worried that Joe might have moved the box from its hiding place inside the base of the tree. She knew that they had been careful not to raise his suspicion, but she hoped that Amy's stew of truth and falsehood hadn't tipped him off. So, she was immensely relieved when she stooped to the base of the tree, reached in, and found the box still there. She brushed it clean of its patina of dirt and leaves, tucked it in her coat pocket, and practically ran back to the Great House.

Once there, she went to the governess's room. It had once been her room, and she had learned of the secret panel that, with the right touch, sprang open to reveal a hidden passageway behind. It would provide the perfect hiding place for the box until evening fell and it was needed for the exorcism.

* * *

With Roger on his way back to the Great House to confront his sister, Joe settled back into his desk-chair, feeling satisfied and in control.

The intercom buzzed and his secretary announced that Maggie Collins was on the line to speak to him. Should she put her through?

How typical—after weeks spent avoiding him, she would call now, before the full moon rose again, and her husband once again was subject to the curse.

"Of course, put her through." When the phone clicked and he knew Maggie was on the line, he said in a confident voice, "Joe Haskell."

"Joe, it's me, Maggie."

He noticed how her voice quavered as she spoke. He smiled, picturing her face as a supplicant. "I know, Maggie. And I can guess why you're calling."

"Really, Joe? I don't think you can," she said mustering her confidence. "I have the box," she said flatly.

Silence followed before he asked, "What box, Maggie?"

"Let's not play games, Joe—the puzzle-box that you brought with you from Windcliff. I don't know how it works," she lied, "but I know you used it to make Quentin believe that the werewolf curse has returned."

"You're bluffing," Joe said in a tone meant to convey confidence in spite of the sweat that pricked his brow.

"Go see for yourself. Go to the _tree_ where you hid it. I found it, Joe," she said, her confidence growing as his waned.

"Where is it?" he demanded.

"Not at the farm, but it's safe."

"Where is it, Maggie? Tell me!"

"I would hardly do that, but …"

"But what?" he demanded in an angry voice.

"But I'll return the box, if you undo whatever it is you've done to Quentin. Meet me at the root cellar tonight when the full moon rises."

"Sounds like a trap, Maggie. I bet Quentin will be waiting for another chance to rip my throat out," came his sharp voice. Then he softened and added, "It's unworthy of you—unworthy of all that we shared."

For a moment, Maggie's mind filled with images and memories of the man she once loved and intended to marry. "It's not a trap, Joe," she said, as she pulled herself back to the present and the task at hand. "The box is important to you, and Quentin is important to me. It seems like a fair exchange." She waited while he silently considered.

 _She knew about the tree, so it stood to reason that she did in fact have the box. There was no doubt that she, Julia, and the professor, were in league together. But what they knew—how much they knew—it was impossible to say without_ … He spoke, at last. "Fine, I'll be there." Then his mind turned to the possibilities. He could arrive early and lie in wait for her. He could easily over-power her, take the box, and abscond. Even if the old man were with her, they would be no match for him, but what of Quentin? He still believed himself to be a werewolf. It was a dangerous gambit. He must be prepared—he must be _appropriately_ prepared.

* * *

The sun's descent would bring all the principals for the exorcism together on the old Peabody farm.

It was imperative that Joe not find out about Angelique's presence on the farm that evening. Professor Stokes's idea was that Angelique should wait with Quentin in the root cellar until the sun began to set. Then before the moon rose, he and Maggie would retrieve the puzzle-box from its hiding place at the Great House, and give it to Angelique, so that she could exorcise the demon under the light of the full moon.

In the meantime, Angelique perched on a stool in the root cellar, watching Quentin pace nervously, as he awaited the coming full moon. They had left one of the cellar doors open, and the ladder lowered. So that when the time was right she could ascend the ladder and perform the exorcism.

Quentin gestured to a box of salt on a battered table in the corner. "Please use it to form a pentagram—there—on the floor. It will contain me during the transformation."

"How sweet of you to worry, Quentin, but I can protect myself."

"It's not you I'm worried about," Quentin replied.

"Oh Quentin, you do disappoint me," the sorceress said. "When we met in 1897, I had such high hopes for you. With your affliction cured, you could have become a skilled practitioner of the dark arts. I could see that you had much more potential than your friend Evan Hanley. You could have harnessed your talent and been formidable—if you applied yourself, of course. I would have aided you."

"More like ensnared me," he countered.

As though heedless of his response, she went on, "But like every Collins man, you were a fool for love—using the I Ching to chase it."

"And I found it," he said flatly.

"Ah, yes—with perfect little Maggie," she sneered. "Your perfect little wife."

"Stop it, Angelique."

"Do you know that your perfect little wife has been keeping a secret from you, Quentin?" she taunted him.

"I said, _stop it_!"

"But you don't really mean it. You want me to tell you her secret. I can see it in your eyes."

"Go on then," he spat at her. "Tell me. Tell me Maggie's secret."

Angelique threw back her head and rippled with laughter. "Very well, Quentin. That salt pentagram is unnecessary because you aren't going to transform tonight, just as you didn't transform under the last full moon. Sweet, sweet Maggie lied to you. She let you believe that the curse is back, but it isn't."

"What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Just this—the demon didn't trigger the curse. It's cunning, but limited—limited to manipulating the thoughts and fears of others. It merely planted in your mind the _belief_ that the curse has returned. It read your fears and drew that one to the forefront of your mind—it made you _believe_ the curse was triggered. And your precious Maggie knew, but all the while, she's said nothing."

"She's trying to protect me," he said, though it sounded weak to his ears.

"She let you believe that the pain of transformation was real. She let you believe that you were dangerous—an _animal_. What a special love you two must share!" She laughed again.

In the fading light, he could see her blond hair move as she laughed. All at once he wanted to feel his hands around her throat—anything to silence her mocking laugh. This must be how Barnabas felt—overwhelmed by the contradiction of her beauty, her lyrical voice, and the venom she spewed. He found some empathy for his cousin, who both hated and loved the sorceress.

His hands went to his ears. He turned away from her. "Stop it," he heard a voice say. It was his, but it felt disembodied, as though it no longer belonged to him. He turned back to face her—murderous rage taking him. Even if the "transformation" had not begun, the dormant wolf within would no longer brook her cruel laughter.

The little daylight that found its way through the open cellar door had rapidly faded away.

* * *

The sun was merely a glow in the evening sky when Joe approached the farm. He had come on foot through the woods and waited on the far side of the clearing hiding among the trees. There were two cars in the drive outside of the farmhouse—Quentin's and Maggie's, but there were no lights on inside and no other signs of life within.

He crouched low and approached the house, peeking through the windows to confirm his initial impression. The house was completely still and dark.

The root cellar was next. He crept across the yard that separated the cellar from the house. One door of the cellar was open; he could hear voices inside below—a man and a woman—Quentin and Maggie? It must be, but if this was intended to be a trap, it was a poorly conceived one. It was he who would spring the trap. He would trap them together in the cellar, and released them as the moon rose into the sky. Even if Maggie wore her pentagram, the sight of her husband in the throes of his "transformation" would serve his purpose. She would give him the box and beg him to release her precious Quentin.

In the growing darkness, he looked around for something to bar the doors, but there was nothing at hand. Perhaps they'd had the foresight to take it inside with them. In any case, he found nothing suitable. He must double back to their gardening shed at the back of the farmhouse. There he'd retrieve a rake or shovel, and use its handle to secure the doors.

By the time he returned, the glow of sunset was history, and the full moon was ascending into the evening sky. Through the open door of the cellar he heard his rival groan in pain—the "transformation" was underway. He bent down, threw the door shut, and jammed the rake through the handles of the cellar doors. He rocked back on his heels and smiled in satisfaction.

* * *

"Listen to me, Quentin," Angelique implored, but it was too late. Quentin was no longer capable of understanding her. He believed he was in the throes of the transformation to the wolf.

It was terrible to behold. Quentin dropped to his knees, believing his body to be wracked with pain. His human voice dissolved into a guttural howl.

Angelique took a tentative step toward the ladder. "Quentin, you must listen to me," she tried again, to no avail. He was beyond the reach of reason.

The pain was subsiding. Quentin now believed he was the wolf; he believed the transformation was complete. He rose and turned to face the witch. He still looked like Quentin, but Angelique could see the animal madness in his eyes. His growl reverberated through the cellar. Angelique scrambled to the ladder, turned, and conjured the image of a pentagram in the air between her and Quentin. He took a step in retreat and bared his teeth at her. It bought her enough time to reach the ladder, but after two steps up, the door of the cellar slammed shut, barring her way out.

* * *

When Professor Stokes arrived at the Great House, he found Maggie already waiting impatiently. He saw her keeping watch even as his car made its way up the drive. She didn't wait for him to park and open the door for her. Instead, as soon as the car stopped, she opened the door and hopped in.

"Are you ready, my dear?" he asked, ignoring her demeanor.

"Yes," she affirmed, as she put on her seatbelt, and waited for him to pull away from the house.

Instead he killed the engine and turned to her. "May I see it?" he asked.

Maggie tamped down her impatience and drew the small box from her coat-pocket and handed it to him. The box seemed very small in his large hands.

As though reading her mind, he said, "It's smaller than I thought it would be—more delicate too." He used his index finger to slide one panel of the box. Then he slid the panel back to its previous position and handed the box back to Maggie.

"I hope Angelique will be able to open it when the time comes," Maggie said.

"I daresay she will," the professor answered. He turned the engine over and started the car. He glanced over his shoulder, though they were still on the front drive.

All the way on the drive to the Collinsport Road, and then as they headed down the road to the access lane to the farm, Maggie wished she were driving instead of the patient, careful professor. Maggie knew these roads inside and out. She had driven them at all hours of the day and night, and in all kinds of weather. She would have made it to the farm in half the time it took the professor—or so her impatience told her.

The professor seemed oblivious. "It's a rare opportunity for someone like me," he was saying. "I've studied such phenomena, even conducted simple exorcisms myself, but not a demon. One reads about them in books, but a _real_ demon—to encounter one in corporeal form… to see it cast out …"

"About that, Professor," Maggie began. "Perhaps it would be best if you waited at the house …"

"And miss this rarest of opportunities, but why?"

"Because the demon is unpredictable. Angelique can protect herself and I … I know a part of it is still Joe, and Joe would never hurt me, but you …"

"I might be a source of vulnerability," he said. His voice dripped with disappointment.

"You know there's no one I'd rather have by my side at a time like this, but I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you because of me."

"It wouldn't be because of you. It would be because of the demon, but I take your point," he concluded.

The car rolled to a stop behind Quentin's. Maggie led the professor to the door of the farmhouse, turned on the porch light, and then unlocked the door giving him access to her house.

Maggie laid a hand on the professor's arm. "Stay alert," she said in a calm, firm voice. "If things don't go as planned, we may yet need you."

"Of course, my dear. I'll be ready, if needed."

With that, Maggie offered him a tentative parting smile, took the flashlight from the entryway, and headed to the root cellar.

* * *

In the distance, Joe could see a small beam of light moving toward him. He stood. Perhaps it was the old man—he could be additional leverage to get Maggie to give him the box. _And then what?_ He wanted Maggie as well as the box. He _needed_ Maggie as well as the box. It made no sense to the part of him that was ancient—the part that had been confined for too long and wanted nothing more than its freedom. But it was the only thing that made sense to the part of him that was still Joe—to the part of him that was of this place, the part of him that had been deprived of the life he was building for himself—with Maggie.

* * *

As the light approached Joe, it moved side to side then illuminated the ground ahead. As it drew closer, he could see the figure was too small to be that of the professor. A breeze swept across the farmyard and Joe could see tendrils of dark hair fan out in response. He could see now that it was Maggie approaching. Whose voice, he wondered, had he heard below? Julia's perhaps. Was she there to keep Quentin calm by means he had personally witnessed at Windcliff?

Maggie traversed the farmyard in quick, efficient steps until she saw him. Then, even in the dim light, he could see her almost hesitate. Was it confusion? Their plan, whatever it was, had gone awry—been upended. She had not expected to find him here already. Or was it fear? Did he frighten her? Was that the reason she avoided him? In a moment, he would have his answer.

Maggie approached. "Joe," she said.

"I'm sorry it's come to this, Maggie. I really am." A smile played at the corner of his lips.

The beam of the flashlight followed her eyes to the doors of the cellar. "No," she whispered into the evening air.

"I'm afraid so," he said.

* * *

The conjured pentagram kept Quentin at bay as Angelique climbed the wooden ladder. The cellar was in darkness now. Still, as she glanced over her shoulder, she could see Quentin's wild eyes shining out of his silhouetted figure. She could hear him snarling in the darkness.

She turned back to the task at hand. She pushed against the door. It didn't move. She tried again, banging her hand hard against it. Someone had barred the door. She felt anger pushing its way up from the pit of her stomach. No one treated her this way. She stepped down one rung, extended her arms, and called upon the elements to execute her will.

* * *

"Maggie," Joe began. Then a loud crack that seemed to split the night itself filled the air.

The rake that barred the doors of the cellar cracked in two and flew apart. The doors blew open with force, and Angelique emerged—her blond hair as bright as a beacon in the moonlight.

" _You_!" Joe said, as he recognized a tormenter from his past.

"Yes, Joe. It's me." And then to Maggie, she said, "Give me the box, Maggie."

Maggie took a step toward Angelique then hesitated.

 _It_ channeled all of its energy into convincing the young woman before him—the young woman his host still loved. _It_ looked at her through Joe's eyes—spoke to her in Joe's voice. "Please, Maggie. Give me the box. I promise I'll take it and leave Collinwood. I'll go someplace far away from here. You'll never see me again."

"Don't listen to it, Maggie. It isn't Joe—not really." Angelique implored her.

"I get it now, Maggie. It hurts, but I get it. You love Quentin. I don't want to stand in your way. If you give me the box, I'll leave."

"Don't look at him, Maggie. Don't listen to it. It isn't _Joe_ ," Angelique hissed in growing frustration and anger. How had she allied herself with such a weakling?

"Joe," Maggie said, turning toward him.

"I love you, Maggie. I love you enough to let you go, enough to see you with Quentin, knowing that he makes you happy. It's enough for me, Maggie," he said with passion and warmth. He extended his hand toward her, silently asking for the box that was his prison.

Angelique turned her full attention to Maggie. It was clear that the will of the so-called demon was at work. Maggie was not strong enough to resist it. "Don't be a fool, Maggie!" Angelique would take the box from her, if necessary.

With her full attention fixed on Maggie, Angelique lost focus on the pentagram she'd conjured. The wolf was suddenly released. Quentin climbed the ladder still snarling like an animal. Joe turned just in time to face the possessed man coming at him hard and fast.

In a moment, Quentin had tackled Joe. Forceful hands pinned Joe to the ground, as Quentin tried to attack his neck. Joe tried to fend off the attack with one arm; with the other he frantically reached for his jacket pocket.

As the two possessed men struggled on the ground, Angelique ran to Maggie, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. "The box, Maggie, give it to me."

Maggie's eyes never left the two men. She stood for a moment in stunned silence. Joe had managed to pull a silver letter opener from his pocket. She recognized it at once. She'd seen it at the Old House long ago. How? When had he gotten it? She shook her head to clear her mind.

Joe drove the small dagger into Quentin—aiming for his heart, but he missed. Instead, he drove the blade deep into the small depression of muscle just beneath the left clavicle instead. Quentin's whelp shattered the night-quiet of the farm, finally breaking through the haze and silencing Joe's voice in Maggie's mind.

Maggie pulled the box from her pocket. "Here—take it!" She pressed it into Angelique's hands.

Quentin had fallen back—the dagger still in his chest. The noises he made were at once fierce and pitiful. Joe scrambled up to his knees, still winded and sore, but reinvigorated by having the upper hand. He bent over Quentin and drew out the dagger—ready to deliver the coup de grace.

"Stop demon," Angelique called out. She held the box out in front of her, relishing her command of the moment.

Joe's fingers went limp and the dagger fell harmlessly to the ground. He fixed his gaze on the sorceress. He felt trapped, and yet his instinct for survival was strong. After all, there was no history, no disagreement between the two of them. She might yet let him walk free.

"We're the same—you and I," _It_ said. "Alone and in the dark … and then animated—brought to life—and desperate for the one we love."

It was true. The times that she was away from Barnabas, Angelique did feel alone and in darkness.

"He's unworthy of you. You offer him everything— _the world_ —still he spurns you—and for what?" _It_ went on.

 _It_ was right, of course. _It_ had read her thoughts—her fears. Alone and in the dark—how long had she dwelt there waiting—waiting to be summoned—to be of service—but never wanted, never loved!

She held the box out in front of her, balanced on her left palm. The demon took it as an offering and moved toward her. Then she raised her right hand and held it above the box. A panel slid to the right, another to the left. Now the panels slid seemingly of their own accord, until the box popped open.

"Do you think you can manipulate me, demon? Do you think me as weak-minded as these mortals? You are right—I have long dwelt in the darkness and seen creatures with power you can only dream of possessing. You cannot manipulate me, demon."

With Joe's influence over Maggie shattered, she ran to Quentin. Blood seeped through his tan sweater. She pulled the scarf from her neck and went to staunch the bleeding. Still, he growled at her in the wolf's voice. His eyes were not his own. He was still possessed. But she did not have the luxury of waiting to see whether Angelique could drive the demon out of Joe. Quentin's breaths came out in shallow puffs. Maggie went to him, raised his sweater, and pressed the scarf to the wound. He grabbed her wrists and held them so tightly she knew there would be bruising. She was undeterred though it was clear that he didn't recognize her.

* * *

Quentin's howl of pain had carried through the evening air and found its way to Professor Stokes, who was anxiously pacing the sitting room of the farmhouse. He'd been torn—conflicted as to what to do. He wanted to accede to Maggie's wishes and stay out of harm's way—indeed out of her and Angelique's way, but he wanted to see it through. He'd been riven until Quentin's howl decided the matter.

He went to the neatly organized entryway, with its pegs for coats and jackets, umbrella stand, and small cupboard for the miscellanea necessary for life on the farm—including, he found, flashlights. He took one, ensured that it was working, and headed out into the night.

The full moon afforded him some light. Supplementing it with the dim beam of the flashlight, he made his way toward the root cellar. He tried to move speedily, but he was slowed by his chronically arthritic knee and shoes singularly unsuited to walking fast. Still before long, he could see the tableau playing out at the entrance to the root cellar. The full moon now hung low in the evening sky illuminating Angelique's blond hair. Joe Haskell stood before her. Maggie knelt beside her husband who lay on his back on the ground.

Before he reached them, he could hear their voices like a cacophonous operatic quartet.

Maggie was pleading with her husband, "Please Quentin. It's me, Maggie. Let me help you." To which, her husband replied with animalistic growls, punctuated with whelps of pain.

Angelique, now bathed in moonlight, stood with the box in her hands. Her incantation formed the melody. "Light of the moon, pull of the tides, aid me in my task. Return this creature to the darkness from which it came. Light of the moon, pull of the tides, aid me in my task. Return this creature to this vessel."

Joe's staccato mocking laughter formed the counterpoint. "Do you think you're strong enough to force me back into the darkness?"

"Light of the moon, pull of the tides, I implore you, aid me in my task." Angelique's voice rang out.

"The last one to try it was old, but powerful. You're nothing compared to him, witch," the demon taunted. "He succeeded, but the effort ended his life. Do you want to end up the same way?"

Professor Stokes could see, even in the faint light, how the effort drained Angelique. But the demon's taunts seemed to rally her spirit. She seemed to relish the challenge. Her pride was at stake; her power was under threat.

" _Silence_ , demon! Your words mean nothing to me." The sorceress was momentarily distracted from her incantation. It was what the demon desired.

"Focus, my dear," the professor called to her. "It means to distract you."

The light in the sorceress's eyes seemed to change. "You think I am like the others," she said. "I am not!" She extended her arm toward him; her fingers open wide. Gradually, she began to close her hand. Joe's hands went to his throat. He sputtered and began to choke. "You will be driven from this host, demon—one way or the other." Angelique said in a taunting tone. She tightened her hand as though it was around his throat, and Joe began to choke in earnest—struggling for air. "Your vessel awaits."

"Angelique, please …" the professor began. "You'll kill him."

But Angelique would not listen. The incantation was set aside in favor of her preferred methods. She would drive the demon from its living host, or kill the host and it would be forced to flee. It was no longer a matter of helping to free Quentin. It was a matter of her will against the demon's. She would prevail. "Your vessel awaits," she taunted the suffocating man.

"Angelique, please …" Stokes tried again.

" _Silence_!" Angelique freed her grip on Joe just long enough to cast her hand and her will toward the professor, sending him tumbling backward, falling to the ground with force.

The demon took that momentary distraction to advance toward the sorceress, and was now nearly close enough to touch her. But she turned back just in time and resumed. Joe's hand clawed desperately at his throat as he tried to free himself. He dropped to his knees and looked at Angelique through wide, angry eyes.

"You see now that I am not like the others. I will cast you out or I will kill him here and now. Either way your vessel awaits," she intoned. She tightened her grip until her hand formed a fist. She could feel her nails dig into her palm. The demon's will was strong. She might have been tempted to spare it if she thought she could bend it to her will. They could have forged a formidable partnership. But the demon was selfish and unpredictable. She had no desire to endlessly match wills with it. She was supreme—she had the demon on its heels—she would press the advantage—and end it. "Your vessel awaits!" she intoned. "Your vessel awaits!"

Joe struggled—mouth agape, eyes wide and wild. Though open, his eyes saw only darkness. The demon had underestimated her. What she lacked in mastery of the elements, she made up in sheer ruthlessness. She would kill the host if she had to—she was not like the others. _It_ cared nothing for the now useless host, Joe Haskell.

 _It_ frantically thought to take another from among them for a host—the tired old professor—another woman—the man weak enough of mind to believe himself cursed. Its panicked mind surveyed the options, but the vessel had a will as well. The vessel called out to it—drew it to return. _It_ could no longer resist. The pull of the tide was against it. The power of the sorceress had weakened it. And the vessel designed specifically to hold _It_ and punish it for all eternity, called and beckoned it back. There was no resisting.

Professor Stokes watched in astonishment as plumes of red smoke poured out of each of Joe's eyes. From each nostril, dark plumes of smoke came out. Finally, from his mouth, still gasping for air, came yet another plume of dark smoke. The plumes came together. In a moment, they knitted themselves into a thick single strand. Then Angelique watched with evident satisfaction as the plait of smoke reluctantly sought its vessel. As its tail-end folded into the box, she passed her hand over it, and the panels slid back into place, sealing the demon inside.

It was done. Angelique crumpled to the ground. The small box fell from her hand and tumbled harmlessly away.


	13. Chapter 13

The sun's appearance on the eastern horizon brings a new day to Collinwood and vanquishes what remains of an eventful night. The full moon brought together a constellation of Collinwood residents; its departure has left none untouched. A sorceress has used her powers to conquer a demon that walked among them, leaving those who bore witness forever changed.

* * *

The night of the full moon, Julia received a frantic call from Maggie, begging her to come to the farm, where she was urgently needed.

Julia had been pacing the drawing room of the Great House, feeling at loose ends and missing Barnabas more than she cared to admit. She'd been made to feel extraneous—on the outside looking in. With Barnabas, it had been different. He relied on her; he'd grown to trust her. And while they hadn't always agreed on a course of action, he always turned to her for advice and support—or so it felt through the soft lens of hindsight. Regardless, that night she missed him—actively missed him. She considered going to the basement of the Old House to see him. She was sorely tempted. Though his consciousness was still elsewhere courtesy of the I Ching, a physical manifestation of him still resided, deep in a trance state, in the Old House. But she would feel pathetic going to him to alleviate her loneliness and disappointment at being excluded from the exorcism.

Only she and Mrs. Johnson were at home. Carolyn had taken David and Amy out for burgers and a movie; Mrs. Stoddard was dining with another member of the hospital board at the Inn; and Roger had gone to Bangor again, to beat back his feelings of rejection when Angelique was once again too busy to see him. Even Harry Johnson, the housekeeper's unctuous son, had gone to the Blue Whale to try his luck with any unsuspecting female he could find.

The sound of the phone sent a shock through the near silence. "I'll get it, Mrs. Johnson," Julia had called out then realized how small the odds were that the housekeeper would hear her.

"Hello," she said. It was as much a question as a greeting.

"Julia—thank heaven you're there. You must come at once. We need you," came Maggie's frantic voice through the handset.

"Maggie? What is it? What happened?" Julia asked in rapid succession.

"I'll explain everything when you get here. I'll meet you at the gate. Please hurry, Julia—and bring your medical bag!" Maggie hung up before Julia could ask more questions.

Julia's mind was swirling—had the exorcism been successful? Who was hurt? Clearly not Maggie, but what about Eliot? He was the only other among them without the ability to protect himself—he was vulnerable.

She went to the foyer, donned her coat and scarf, grabbed her handbag and medical bag from the entryway table, and headed to the farm, without even thinking to tell Mrs. Johnson she was leaving.

* * *

Maggie wanted nothing more than to go back to Quentin, but she was stuck waiting for Julia. She stood beside the open gate, looking down the access road, waiting for the lights of Julia's car. Her mind led her back to the entrance to the cellar, where her husband lay bleeding. She looked at her hands, still sticky with blood.

In the moment the demon was driven from Joe's body, he experienced lucidity—he was himself again. "Maggie!" Joe called out to her as she tended to her injured husband. "I'm sorry, Maggie. I never meant to hurt anyone." He pulled himself to a seat on the ground where only moments before he collapsed when the demon left its host.

"I know, Joe," Maggie said reassuringly. She angled her body so that she could keep pressure on Quentin's wound, even as she made eye contact with Joe. "I know it wasn't you, Joe."

"Do you, Maggie? Because nothing is more important to me …" he began. His words slowed. "You … need to know ... nothing is ..."

"Joe! What's wrong?" Maggie said.

"Maggie," Quentin had said in his human voice. His eyes opened; they were Quentin's again. He was no longer possessed. "Go—go and get Julia," he continued.

"I can't leave you like this," Maggie said as she turned back to fully face him. His face was pale—drained of its usual color. His eyes fixed on hers with an unfocused gaze.

"I need a doctor, Maggie. Go—get Julia."

She turned to where the professor was gently cradling Angelique. "Professor, can you go to the house and call Julia?"

Professor Stokes looked toward her in the darkness. "It will be faster if you go, my dear," he responded.

Maggie took Quentin's hand in hers then placed it firmly on the blood soaked scarf that she used to staunch his bleeding. "Keep pressure on it, as much as you can." He nodded in response.

As she passed where the professor sat with Angelique, he said, "Take the box, Maggie." He gestured toward the momentarily forgotten source of their current situation. "Keep it safe." Maggie retrieved the small box, shoved it into the pocket of her coat, and ran to the house.

Now she waited impatiently for Julia's arrival. She could have told Julia to meet her at the root cellar, but the doctor didn't know the farm very well, and it might have taken longer for her to reach the cellar unaccompanied than if Maggie waited and guided her there. Objectively, no more than ten minutes could have passed, but each minute stretched on and on.

At last, she saw the headlights in the distance.

* * *

When she and Maggie arrived at the entrance to the root cellar, Julia went first to attend to Quentin. She assessed his shoulder by the dim light of Maggie's flashlight.

"We have to get him to the hospital," Julia said summarily.

"No!" It was Quentin who spoke.

"Quentin, you need more than I can do for you here. The wound is deep and you've lost a lot of blood," was Julia's frustrated retort.

"What will we say happened?" Maggie wondered aloud.

But Julia replied as though the question was directed to her. "I'll think of something."

Julia stood. Maggie took her place beside Quentin, relieved him of the blood soaked scarf, and resumed applying pressure to her husband's shoulder.

Julia had turned to Joe. He sat stock still on the ground. "Julia?" Maggie said. Her question was implicit.

"It was the demon that animated the healthy part of his mind," Professor Stokes said.

"Yes," Julia said, as she rose from where she'd bent to examine Joe. "Without it, I'm afraid Joe has relapsed." She took note of the professor holding a woozy Angelique. "What's wrong with her?" Julia asked in a tart tone.

"She fainted from the exertion," Professor Stokes responded. "But she seems to be coming around."

"Good," Julia said just as Angelique's eyes fluttered open. "Perhaps you can see that she gets home safely, while Maggie and I take Quentin and Joe to the hospital."

"Of course," he said simply. "Are you all right, my dear?" Professor Stokes asked Angelique.

"Yes, I think so," though she struggled to sit upright. The professor, still cradling her shoulders, gently assisted. "Was I … was I successful?" she asked.

"Yes, yes you were. You were simply magnificent," Professor Stokes told her.

* * *

By the time Julia arrived at the Collinsport Hospital, with her two patients and the woman who cared deeply for both of them in tow, it was well past midnight. Quentin's wound, though painful, was not life threatening. He'd been lucky given how close the blade had come to his heart. As it was, the blade deeply pierced his muscle and sinew, but he would heal.

Joe had not been as lucky. Without the demon's will to survive and fulfill its host's desires and ambitions, Joe withdrew again, and reverted to his semi-catatonic state.

Dr. Woodard, attending at the hospital that evening, met them, and ushered the patients into separate examination areas. Joe moved as guided, but with slow, deliberate movements. Julia led him to a chair then closed the curtain. When a nurse arrived to check Joe's vital signs, Julia left and went to check on Quentin.

She entered just as Dr. Woodard was questioning Maggie about the nature of Quentin's wound. "What kind of accident, Maggie?"

"Well, you know we've been renovating the old Peabody farm and there are so many hidden hazards in the old place. I'm afraid Quentin was trying to remove this metal shard from one of the posts in the root cellar …" Maggie began.

The doctor interrupted her. "It's a very clean wound," he observed. "Not jagged as one might expect from …"

Before Julia could intervene, Maggie started to cry loudly. She covered her face in her hands, but said in a clear voice, "There was so much blood, Dr. Woodard."

"Calm down, Maggie. It's going to be all right," Dr. Woodard said, looking up at Maggie over his glasses.

Quentin lay on the exam table with his eyes closed, but listening to all that transpired. He knew his wife well enough to hear the pretence in her voice.

Then Julia stepped in. "So what's his prognosis, Dave?" she asked.

"He'll need some subcutaneous sutures, and probably a tetanus shot, but he'll be fine. He's lost a lot of blood, so I'd like to keep him overnight," Dr. Woodard concluded. He called a nurse to organize the suture kit. Then he continued, "What about Joe?"

"I'm afraid he's suffered a relapse," Julia told him. "A nurse is with him now, but I think I should drive him to Windcliff—tonight."

" _Tonight_? Is that really necessary, Julia?" Dr. Woodard asked.

"I think it's for the best, Dave," Julia replied.

Dave Woodard pinched the bridge of his nose above his glasses and sighed. "I've known Joe since he was a boy." He added in a sad but resigned voice, "I don't understand what happened to him. What drove him to madness in the first place? And, well, every time I've seen him since he came back he seemed like his old self again. I just don't understand it." The doctor shook his head. He turned to Maggie. "Do you know what happened? Was Joe at the farm when Quentin had his accident?"

"Dave, shouldn't you be attending to your patient's wound rather than interrogating his wife?" Julia asked in an irritated voice.

"It's okay, Julia. Yes, he was there when Quentin had his accident," Maggie said. "It's no secret that he and Quentin weren't friends, but I was hoping to change that. Joe arrived earlier than expected and Quentin was still in the root cellar. Maybe it was the sight of all that blood—it must have brought up bad memories for Joe."

Quentin's eyes opened and sought Maggie's.

Dr. Woodard said, "Well, I guess there's no need to call Sheriff Patterson." He sighed again.

" _Sheriff Patterson_?" Julia was emphatically incredulous.

Dr. Woodard gestured her out of the exam area just beyond the curtain. "It's customary, in cases such as these …" Dave Woodard began, only to be cut off by Julia.

"In cases such as these?" she repeated. "Cases such as what, Dave? It was an accident—nothing more."

"Calm down, Julia. I just said that I'm not going to call the sheriff, but I can't help but believe there's more to the story."

Julia swept past Dr. Woodard and reentered the exam area where Maggie stood beside Quentin. "Maggie, would you like me to drive you back to the estate before I take Joe to Windcliff?"

"No, thank you, Julia. I'm not leaving," Maggie told her.

Dr. Woodard appeared behind Julia. "That's not necessary, Maggie. He'll be fine. You should go home and get some rest," he said.

"I prefer to stay, Dr. Woodard. I'll sleep in a chair if I have to."

"Very well," the doctor said. He stood facing the united front of Julia and Maggie.

Julia said, "It seems everything is decided." To Maggie, she said, "I'm sorry, Maggie, there's nothing more I can do for Joe here. I think Windcliff is his best chance for a full recovery."

"I understand," Maggie said simply.

"I'll stop by to check on Quentin tomorrow when I return from Windcliff," Julia continued.

In a moment of rapprochement, which was lost on Dr. Woodard, but clear to Quentin and Julia, Maggie said, "Thank you, Julia. Thank you for _everything_."

* * *

The afternoon following the exorcism, Angelique felt quite recovered—more than that, she felt triumphant. She had exorcised a demon—her powers were ascendant. She envied the demon its power to read and influence others. Such power would have made it easy, though less satisfying, to bring Barnabas to heel. Still, she would soon have the means to vanquish her rival once and forever.

She had enjoyed a leisurely day as she recovered her strength and focus. She'd taken a bubble bath and then had a late breakfast delivered to her room. It was nearly noon when Roger called to invite her to spend the afternoon with him. She declined, claiming she was under the weather, but promising to see him the following day. He was effusively disappointed. Angelique drew a deep breath to mask her irritation. She was already tired of him; she was ready to turn the page, to reclaim what was rightfully hers, and take her place as mistress of the Old House.

* * *

Quentin reclined on the couch of the farmhouse sitting room. His left arm was in a sling, courtesy of Dr. Woodard's ministrations. Pain still radiated from the deep wound in his shoulder. He could hear Maggie moving around in the kitchen. A moment later she was at his side. She placed a glass of water and a full pitcher on the coffee table, and moved it to within his reach.

"Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable upstairs in bed?" Maggie asked.

"I'm fine here, but bring me the brandy and a glass," he said in response.

She gave him a disapproving look, but went to their small liquor cabinet and retrieved the brandy for him. She even poured two fingers into the glass.

As she handed it to him, he said, "We need to talk, Maggie." His tone, stern and serious, took her aback.

"Quentin, I … I," she stammered. "I have to go out now," she finally managed to say.

"Now?" he looked out of the window. The sun was sinking toward the horizon. There would be another full moon that night; he could feel it approaching.

"Yes, I have to meet someone," she said in a rushed voice, already moving toward the entryway. "But I won't be long. We'll talk when I get back. I promise," she said as she disappeared from his view.

"Maggie!" She heard him say as she departed, but she didn't respond or turn back.

* * *

When Maggie arrived at Widows' Hill, the second-night full moon was just beginning its ascent into the night sky. She could see Angelique silhouetted by its growing light. Her blond hair was loose about her shoulders; as it reflected the moonlight, it cast a spell of its own.

"What took you so long?" the sorceress asked Maggie, as she turned to face her ostensible rival.

"I had to go to the Great House to retrieve it," Maggie answered. Angelique's ageless nature induced Maggie to treat her with the kind of deference she reserved for adults when she was a child. Now the feeling of intimidation welled up inside of her. She knew—she had witnessed—what this woman, this _creature_ was capable of.

"Well?" Angelique demanded.

Maggie stepped out of the edge of the woods that sheltered her and into the clearing that abutted the bluffs of Widows' Hill. Suddenly, she felt as though she was bathed in the light of the still-rising moon and its reflection in the sorceress's hair. Her hands slowly moved forward in a tentative gesture of offering. She opened the small velvet bag. It fell away and pooled over her hands and wrists, to reveal Josette's music-box. "This," Maggie said, regaining her adult voice, "this is Josette's vessel. Her spirit resides within and is carried by its tune."

Angelique approached her and took the music-box. She turned away from Maggie to examine it in the moonlight. Maggie lowered her hands to her lap. The velvet bag fell discarded to the ground.

Maggie continued. "Each time Barnabas would play it for me, I could feel her— _Josette_. I could feel her spirit."

"Then why hasn't she possessed you?" Angelique asked with irrational bitterness.

"She isn't strong like the demon." Maggie, in spite of her reticence to relive those frightening, bleak days, searched for the words to describe what she now understood to be the essence of Josette DuPres. "She's delicate, fragile … and lonely—so very lonely. She isn't strong enough to force her will on another. She's looking for a willing host."

"And she didn't find one in you," Angelique said flatly.

"No. I clung to being Maggie … to returning to Pop and Joe. If they hadn't been waiting for me—searching for me—perhaps things would have been different."

"How touching," Angelique sneered. At no time in her varied existences had she ever inspired such sentimentality, she silently reflected with bitterness.

"Please, Angelique," Maggie said, her voice accompanied by the sound of the surf below the bluffs. "Please release Josette's spirit. I've seen your power," Maggie appealed to the witch's vanity. "You can free her. Cast her spirit out—here on Widows' Hill. What could be more fitting? Then Barnabas will never have the means to bring her back. You'll have vanquished her once and for all."

Angelique seemed to consider. She fixed Maggie with a thoughtful gaze. "I have held up my end of the bargain," she began. Holding up the music-box for Maggie to see one last time, she continued, "With this, you have upheld yours. What happens now is no longer your concern."

"Angelique, please," Maggie began her plea again.

" _Go_ , Maggie," Angelique thundered, her voice rising loud above the sound of the waves. "Go now, while it's still you that I see and not Josette. Go now. Go back to your precious husband and your precious farmhouse. _Go_ , while I'm still inclined to let you leave."

Though it didn't make sense to her, tears pricked Maggie's eyes and her throat burned with the sudden reflex to cry. She turned and fled back into the woods where no one would bear witness to her tears.

* * *

As the waves rhythmically approached then retreated from the rocks below Widows' Hill, Angelique stood examining her prize in the light of the growing full moon. She felt certain that Maggie was right. At last she had her rival, Josette DuPres, literally in her hands.

Although she'd used words like delicate and fragile, Maggie was right about Josette's spirit. But Angelique would describe Josette as weak—too weak to exert her will on an unwilling host and find her way back to Barnabas—too weak to deserve Barnabas's undying love. It would be so easy to open the music-box and send Josette's spirit out to sea, and then shattered the box into hundreds of tiny pieces. She possessed the power to do it. Maggie was right—Barnabas would never again have the means to bring Josette back to life.

But neither would she have his love. She'd come close to making him love her. In 1897, for a brief, beautiful time, he'd treated her with respect, affection even. She wanted _that_ again. She would never achieve it by exorcising her rival—no, she must _supplant_ her. Only then would she win out over Josette DuPres.

She knew what she must do. It was time to return Barnabas to this time—to wake him from the I Ching trance—to bring him back to witness the woman, so much like Josette, married to, and in love with his cousin. That would be punishment enough, but with the music-box in her possession, she would have Josette as hostage lest he forget again what he owed her.

 _This time will be different. This time, he will learn to love me._

* * *

By the time her tears abated, Maggie found herself deep in the woods. _Why?_ She wondered. What brought on her tears? Did Angelique frighten her so? Or was it some lingering connection to Josette DuPres? Was it the realization that she had made it possible to banish Josette's spirit forever? Surely, it was the right thing to do—to let Josette finally be at peace. Nevertheless, she was responsible for extinguishing what remained of Josette DuPres and it left her feeling emotionally unsettled. And then she remembered Kitty. It was the existence of Josette's spirit that had almost certainly cost Kitty Soames her life—Kitty, who had done nothing to deserve her fate, except have the misfortune to resemble Josette DuPres.

Maggie shoved her hands in her pockets in search of tissue or a handkerchief. Instead, she realized that the puzzle-box was still in the pocket of her jacket. She resisted the temptation the remove it and examine it. She turned away from the path that led back to the farm, and instead headed into town. It was a long walk, but a welcome one. In the time it took her to reach Professor Stokes's apartment in Collinsport, she was done with tears. Although it wasn't late, it was later than she'd ever deigned to visit him uninvited before.

* * *

"Maggie, my dear. Come in, please," the professor said in response to her tentative knock.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all. I've just finished a rather solitary meal, and would welcome the company," he said with formal cordiality. He gestured her toward his sitting room. "I was about to begin my notes on the events of the past few days," he added, indicating a notebook that lay open on his desk. "So, this is a welcome distraction. May I offer you a glass of sherry?"

"Yes, please," Maggie said as she took off her coat and draped it across the arm of the couch.

"Julia came by earlier," he said as he poured their drinks. He returned to where Maggie sat and handed her her drink. "Cheers," he said, offering his glass. The delicate stemmed glass was so incongruous in his large hand. She joylessly touched it with hers and took a sip. The professor continued, "She told me about Joe Haskell. I am sorry."

"So am I," Maggie responded sadly. She fell silent and sipped the sherry.

Eliot Stokes lowered himself into the armchair opposite his guest. "As welcome as this visit is, I daresay you've not come for a glass of sherry at this time of evening. What brings you here, Maggie?"

Maggie set her sherry on the end-table and reached for her coat. "I've come to bring you this," she said as she produced the puzzle-box from the pocket. "I was out walking in the woods when I realized it was still in my pocket."

"Indeed," the professor said, registering some doubt with a raised eyebrow. "What are we to do with it?" he wondered aloud.

"I hoped you would take it," Maggie ventured. "Evan said it was passed from one guardian to another. You could be its next guardian."

The professor grew thoughtful for a few moments. "At my age and time of life, I feel ill-suited to such a task." They sat in silence for a time as he considered. "Angelique has the requisite skills to keep it safe," he mused aloud.

"If she could be trusted," Maggie said bitterly. "But she can't. She might be tempted to use it for her own ends."

The professor smiled. "In spite of my fascination with her, I recognize that Angelique is a force to be reckoned with—and that she is motivated by her own affairs."

Maggie took a deep sip of sherry. "So what are we going to do with it, Professor?"

* * *

That evening, Maggie was grateful for Professor Stokes's slow, methodical driving. She hadn't been relishing the long walk back to the farm in the dark, so she gladly accepted his offer of a ride home.

They'd proceeded in silence, until they reached the access road that led to the farmhouse. "Are you all right, my dear?" the professor asked.

Maggie sighed and searched for an appropriate response. "I don't know, but I suppose I will be."

"Of course you will, Maggie. You're much stronger than people think."

"You only say that because you didn't know me when I was sent away to Windcliff."

"I say it because it's _true_." The professor slowed the car to a stop inside the farm's gate. He exited the car and opened Maggie's door for her. "Please call me tomorrow, if you'd like to talk," he said.

"Of course," she responded, startling the older man with a warm, parting hug.

* * *

The farmhouse was completely dark as she approached. Still, there was sufficient moonlight for her to easily find the keyhole in the copper doorknob. She turned the key as quietly as she could and crept into the entryway. Perhaps Quentin had fallen asleep or gone up to bed. He was sure to be tired having lost so much blood, or so she rationalized her reticence in her mind.

Then his voice upended her hope. "Where did you go, Maggie?"

Maggie reached for the lamp on the end-table, illuminating the room around them. She could see the bottle of brandy was untouched, though he'd finished the drink she'd poured for him. He was still reclining on the couch, lying in wait for her. He sat up and faced her, wincing slightly from pain.

"I went to meet Angelique and then to see Professor Stokes. He drove me home."

"You went to meet Angelique," he said, half confirming, half questioning—both infused with unexpected bitterness. "And what could you two possibly have to discuss?" he asked, without expecting a response.

"I owed her," Maggie began. But Quentin was in no mood to listen. He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.

Maggie went to the liquor cabinet, retrieved a glass, and poured a drink for herself.

"We need to talk," he said.

"Yes, we do," she agreed.

"You knew the curse hadn't returned—you knew it was all in my mind. You _lied_ to me, Maggie," he said at once angry and plaintive in tone.

"And you lied to me, Quentin. All this time that you knew that it was Barnabas who kidnapped me—that it was Barnabas who destroyed my grip on reality," she spat back.

"So that's it? Tit for tat? A lie for a lie?"

"What good would it have done to tell you the truth? You were possessed, just like Joe." They fell quiet for a few moments. "I'm sorry I lied, but I did it to protect you," she added.

"I don't want my wife to have to protect me. _I_ should be the one to protect _you_ ," he said irritably.

Maggie went and sat beside him, curling into his side, draping his healthy but disinterested arm around her shoulder to form an uneasy embrace. "Promise me you won't get upset," she ventured. "But you're being rather old-fashioned."

To her surprise, a deep chuckle resonated through his chest; his arm relaxed and held her gently. "I _am_ old-fashioned," he said. "Sometimes I think I'll never get used to this modern world of yours."

"This time it was my turn to protect you," Maggie said in a soft, placating voice. "Next time it may be your turn to take care of me."

"I'm not sure what I think about that," he said and then kissed her temple. "So what happens now? Is our debt to Angelique paid in full?" he asked, the edge returning to his voice.

"I gave her Josette's music-box. When Barnabas played it for Kitty, I could feel Josette trying to reach me. Then I realized that it was a vessel that contained Josette's spirit. I promised Angelique that if she helped free you from the possession, I would give her Josette, and I did." Tears welled up in Maggie's eyes again. "Quentin, I pleaded with her to free Josette—to release her spirit."

"And did she?" he asked in a knowing voice.

"She told me it was no longer my concern, but the way she said it, I knew." Maggie grew quiet. Quentin stroked her hair, and she could almost feel him slip back into his preferred role of being the protector.

At length, he asked, "What about Stokes? What did you owe him?" he quipped.

"Nothing!" she responded emphatically.

Quentin laughed. "I'm joking, Maggie, although there are times when I could be jealous of the attention he pays you."

"Don't be silly."

"Why did you go see him?" Quentin asked.

Maggie extricated herself from her husband's embrace. She moved to the edge of the couch and turned to face him. "Last night after the exorcism, he gave me the puzzle-box. I went to give it back to him. At first I thought he'd forgotten about it. I should have known better. Now, I think he just wanted to keep it away from Angelique. Perhaps he doesn't quite trust himself where she's concerned."

" _Angelique_? What interest would she have in it?"

"I don't know and the professor wouldn't say. But Quentin, he refused to take it. How could something so small, so beautifully crafted contain something so malicious?" Maggie wondered. "Who was it before it was trapped inside? Who trapped it and why?"

"Well, I don't know who, but the why speaks for itself," Quentin responded in characteristically world-weary fashion. "And certainly you're familiar with the old adage, don't judge a book by its cover. The box may be beautiful, but whoever trapped that demon inside must have had his reasons."

"Or _hers_ ," Maggie added pointedly.

"You think a jilted lover or woman scorned would do such a thing?"

"Well, I've seen the lengths Angelique would go to for Barnabas." She let that observation hang in the air before she continued, "Professor Stokes wants me to keep it—to keep it _safe_ —in point of fact, to be its next guardian."

He reached for the brandy and took a long draught. " _You_? That's ridiculous. How are you supposed to do that? If someone like Angelique wants it, what can you do to stop her from taking it from you?"

"I thought the same thing. But I've been thinking about Evan—about how he learned about the dark arts and used them to keep the box safe and hidden for so many years."

" _Evan_? Maggie …" he began in an exasperated voice.

She interrupted. "Hear me out. There are people who can either take the box and protect it, or teach us what we need to know to protect it ourselves."

" _Us_?"

"Of course. We're in this together—and we have to decide _together_." She took his hand in hers. Her eyes were wide with urgency. "I never want to be at the mercy of _creatures_ like Angelique and Barnabas again."

"I was a creature like them once," he said sadly.

"A creature perhaps, but a victim too—not like them—never like them," she insisted. "Never with design and purpose, or selfish cruelty."

Quentin felt a pang of conscience for an act committed long ago that he didn't regret and knew he would commit again under similar circumstances—and mostly for yet another lie of omission that he felt necessary to shield his wife from his true nature. He grew quiet and seemed to consider. "Evan traveled the world to learn what he knew," Quentin said at last.

"So what's stopping us?" she asked.

"Collinwood is your home—it's _our_ home."

"And it will still be here when we get back," she cooed softly and squeezed his hand.

"It could be dangerous, Maggie. You have no idea what you'd be getting into. I certainly didn't when I followed Laura halfway across the world." His voice conveyed his doubt. "I just can't believe you want to leave Collinwood," he said.

"Do you realize that Kitty Soames had seen more of the world in 1897 than I have living today?" she asked. "Or that you and Evan—living in the last century—both traveled and saw the world before settling down."

"Maggie, I promise you, I'm not the same man I was then."

"Aren't you, Quentin? Because sometimes when I look at you, I see that man—still restive and dissatisfied."

"No," he started to say.

But she continued excitedly, "Sometimes I feel that way too. I _envied_ Kitty. She'd traveled to London, married Gerald, and had a home in the country and in town. When Gerald died, she traveled back to Maine on her own—unaccompanied and unescorted— _in 1897_ —think of it."

Quentin was surprisingly somber. "I'm certain she would have exchanged that travel and adventure to get Gerald back, if she could."

"I'm sure she would have—but we can have both—adventure and each other. Oh Quentin, let's leave Collinwood. Let's travel; let's seek adventure and knowledge— _together_. When we return, we'll be a force in our own right—never again subject to threats from the likes of Barnabas and Angelique."

"Are you sure you aren't overreacting to everything we've been through?"

"No. What makes you say that?"

"Because you love it here. How many times have you told me how much you love this old farmhouse?"

"I _do_ love it here. This is our home—it always will be, but it will still be waiting for us when we return."

"And what about David—and _Amy_?" he asked. "I thought you loved being their governess."

"I do, but I think Carolyn is right. It's time they went to school like other kids, _with_ other kids. Still, leaving them will be the hardest part—especially Amy, but she'll have Carolyn and Mrs. Stoddard. And who knows, maybe Chris will find his way back to Collinwood."

"You seem to have thought of everything, but are you sure? What would we do? Where would we begin this quest of yours?"

"I know exactly where I want to go first—New Orleans."

" _New Orleans_?"

"Yes. Evan told me it's where his travels began."

"My old friend seems to have left a lasting impression on you," Quentin observed dryly. "Did he tell you that that's where he first developed a taste for the occult?"

"Yes. It's why I want to go there—to a place where dark mysteries are accepted, embraced even. For too long, Quentin, dark things have happened to me. Now I want to understand them—on my own terms—not just experience them as a victim locked in a basement cell or driven by madness to Widows' Hill. So, yes—New Orleans! Let's start there—or anywhere you like … as long as we're together. Come with me, Quentin," she pleaded. "Say you'll come with me."

* * *

One week later …

A stiff wind blew across the estate, swirling leaves into the air, as well as Carolyn's blond hair. For a moment, it fanned out like a shimmering corona, before she corralled it and held it in place with one hand.

"Are you sure, Maggie?" she asked with searching, imploring eyes.

"I have to do this, Carolyn. _We_ have to do this," Maggie said with as much conviction as she could.

"Fine," Carolyn said, with a slight huff in her tone. "But why now? Why so soon?" She looked to where Quentin sat waiting in the passenger seat of the car. "Why can't you wait until Quentin is fully recovered from his accident?"

"He's recovered enough to travel—even Dr. Woodard thinks so, and you know how conservative he is about these things," Maggie laughed. But it was a thin, humorless chuckle. "It's best if we stick to our plan to leave today," she said firmly.

For a moment, Carolyn looked as though she would continue to press the point. Instead she said, "I can't help but feel that this has something to do with Barnabas coming back to Collinwood. I noticed how you go to lengths to avoid the Great House when you think he might be there—not just you— _both_ of you."

"You should be careful where Barnabas is concerned, Carolyn," Maggie told her friend with pointed seriousness.

"Yes, I know."

Their eyes met in a moment of realization for both women. "Carolyn, you never said anything."

"Sometimes, I wonder if there was anything to say. Some things are like a bad dream—you wake up the next day and wonder if any of it was real."

"I know what you mean," Maggie said softly. "If you need help, you can count on Professor Stokes—Julia too, but the professor's loyalty is unquestioned."

Carolyn nodded her understanding and affirmation.

Maggie went on, "Take care of David—and Amy. She's going to need you now."

"I asked her to come with me, but she refused."

"She's barely spoken two words to me since I told her that we're leaving," Maggie said sadly. "I don't blame her."

"She'll get over it." Carolyn said to soothe her friend. "It's just that she feels abandoned by everyone she cares about."

"Not everyone—not you," Maggie said. She reached in her pocket and handed Carolyn a letter addressed to Amy. "Please give her this and if she doesn't want to read it, promise me you'll read it to her, when the time seems right."

Carolyn took the letter and put it in the pocket of her mackintosh. "Oh Maggie, I'm going to miss you so much," she said.

"I promise I'll write often," Maggie said, then drew her friend into a hug. "Well, we'd better go. We meant to get on the road an hour ago. Here are the keys," she said gesturing to the house with a lift of her chin. "Take care of it for us." Then she practically ran to the car, only looking back when she reached it and opened the door. She waved briefly then got in and drove off down the access lane that would take them to the main Collinsport Road and beyond.

Carolyn stood and watched the car until it was out of sight. The wind stopped as suddenly as it began and dark, threatening clouds moved across the estate in its wake. Thunder rumbled, adding its voice to the crash of the waves on the bluffs in the distance. Another storm was brewing in Collinwood.

~~~The end ~~~

AN: This fic was like an earworm that I had to write in order to get it out of my head! Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.


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